“Oh, so much more!” said Grandmother; and she added softly as if she were saying over a lesson that she had learned by heart, “His great laws may not be broken. When we transgress them, it is ourselves we break—Come, Manuel, come out into the sunshine.” She spoke as to a child, and like a child he obeyed, and followed her out into the blossoming garden, all life and color and fragrance. As the glory shone upon him, the young man staggered on the threshold and uttered a groan; then he glanced at Grandmother. “Your hair is as white as snow!” he said. “Is it?” said Grandmother. “It doesn’t matter. We must gather flowers, all the brightest flowers, Manuel, for Little One. She liked the gay ones best, and there is nothing else to do—now.” She moved away slowly, among her flowers; she had grown heavy-footed since yesterday; and the man followed her with hanging head. * * * * * The thing that was between them, instead of drawing Rachel and her husband together, seemed to turn them against each other. There were bitter words, words that pierced and stung like poisoned arrows; and every quarrel left Rachel more hysterical, Manuel more gloomy and silent, brooding over that sweet past that had been flung into the dust. Grandmother would come out of her dream and try hard to make peace, and she could always quiet Manuel, but that often exasperated Rachel the more. When the bitter tongue was turned against her she did not seem to hear, but lapsed again into the listless half-dreaming state in which she lived now, moving softly, doing with exquisite care everything that was to be done, but seeming little conscious of what was going on around her. Then came the day when Rachel rushed wild-eyed into her room, as she sat sewing by the empty cradle. “Grandmother,” she cried; “something is the matter with Manuel. He’s—sick; he won’t speak to me. Go and see what is the matter, quick!” Grandmother went into the kitchen. Manuel was sitting by the table as he was that other day, his head in his hands. He looked up and smiled at her, a dull, foolish smile. “Grandmother,” he said thickly, “I’m glad—see you. I sent the other one away. She’s no good; I’ve had enough of her. No good! but you, Grandmother—you weren’t always Grandmother; what’s your other name? I know—Pitia! give me a kiss, Pitia! I always liked you best, you know.” He rose and staggered toward her. She recoiled, her arms stretched out, her face alight with anguish. “Don’t come a step nearer!” she cried. “Manuel—not a step!” He stopped and stared at her stupidly. Suddenly, swiftly, her face changed, softened into pity and tenderness “Poor Manuel!” she said. “Poor boy! come out into the air; come with me!” Again the quiet hand rested on his arm, compelling him, again he stumbled out into the good clear blessed sunshine. Poor Manuel!