"There is little to do. Arturo had gone for Father Ramirez. "If only the Señora will speak to my unhappy child, I shall be most thankful. Tell her that her grandmother is no more, but restrain her from coming for a time into the chamber of death. "Soon I shall have done all. I shall then come for my child and lead her to the dear one." As the Doña Maria finished speaking, she vanished from my side. As I heard her close the door of her mother's room, I knew that she would first pray before the shrine of the little Virgin. For a moment I listened in the silence, almost longing myself to entreat comfort of the image. I remembered how I had fainted Christmas morning, and how gladly I had regained consciousness in the protecting presence of the little Mother. I knew that the Doña Maria would gain strength and courage before the shrine of her implicit faith, and my own heart hungered for a touch of palpable comfort. What if the little image was only painted wood? It whispered something to the simple, aching heart that a stern theology could never say. Alas! I knew that for myself there was nothing but blind hope and fruitless speculation. I could never have knelt before a picture or a shrine, but I envied, none the less, the Spanish woman who found peace and comfort, while I so often suffered in the dark, unsatisfied and rebellious. When at last I heard quiet steps, I knew that the Doña Maria had arisen from her prayers. I knew that in her sorrowing heart there was a blessed faith, childlike and strong, that would help her to perform, quietly and correctly, the last sad offices for her dead. CHAPTER XXII. I sought in vain about the house and garden for Mariposilla. The child had not been away from the ranch since the news of Sidney's marriage, and her sudden absence alarmed me. I remembered that it was Saturday. Perhaps Mariposilla had gone to the old church for confession. Arturo had the pony, and for a moment I was in despair. Fortunately a neighbor arrived with a horse and buggy, which I borrowed. I was determined not to alarm the Doña Maria, and drove away at once in the direction of the Old Mission. The road, for the first time, seemed long and uninteresting. The neighbor's horse was an ancient nag, who discovered at once my impatience and inexperience. He absolutely refused to accelerate his midsummer dog-trot. The persuasions of a stranger he ignored. Despairing, I submitted, while I vaguely questioned myself as to what I should do, in case Mariposilla had not gone to the church. When at last I caught sight of the long, gray outline, hiding among cool, green peppers, my heart seemed to stand still. As I turned into the main approach leading to the Mission, the old bells broke suddenly the oppressive silence. Their melancholy strokes were for the dead; perhaps for the Doña Maria's mother, I thought.