One afternoon I had walked into the churchyard, and after having wandered through it, I lay down in the shade of the wall, near a grave that appeared to have been lately made. While lying thus, I heard a sob: I looked towards the place whence it came, and perceived a beautiful female kneeling beside a grave, devoutly counting her rosary--her tears falling fast upon the ground. I lay, afraid to move, least the noise might disturb her. She remained for some time, absorbed in devotion; then rose from her knees, and, taking a small jar of holy water, sprinkled the grave, and retired undisturbed by me. I mentioned the circumstance to no one, but, day after day, I was an unperceived witness of this scene. At length she saw me as she approached, and was retiring in haste. I came near her. She stood to let me pass. I said, “My presence shall give you no uneasiness: Adieu!” “Stay,” she said, “are you Don Galves’ good soldier?” I replied, “I live with him.” “Stay, you can feel for me: I have none to feel for, nor advise me. Blessed Virgin, be my friend!” She looked to heaven; her eyes beaming resignation and hope, the tears dropping on her bosom. I stretched out my hand to her: my eyes, I believe, were wet. I did not speak. “None,” she said mournfully, “can again have my hand: I gave it to Francisco.” “‘Tis the hand of friendship.” “I can have no friend but death.--You do not pray for the dead; you cannot pray with me.” I said, “I will listen to your’s.” She then began her usual prayers; then rose and sprinkled the grave with holy water, I inquired, “Whose grave do you water?” “My mother’s.” “How long has she been dead?” “Five years.” “Five years! have you done thus so long?” “Alas, no! my mother had been released[8]; but five weeks ago my mournful task again began; ’tis for Francisco: Adieu.” She sobbed and retired with a hurried step. I dare not embellish, lest this incident should not be credited; but I feel this is a cold account of what passed. I have not taken away, neither have I added a word that did not pass between us. From Galves I learned that Francisco had fallen in a Guerilla party. It is the belief in Spain, that every drop of holy water sprinkled upon the grave, quenches a flame in purgatory.