"You know not what I have suffered," she sobbed. "You think I shall forget, but I never shall. I can not bear that he should not be mine." "If only he had gone away like my grandmother, I could endure never to see him again. He would then be mine! all mine, and I could go joyfully into a convent and pray always for his soul." Her voice had grown tearless and sharp. From the corner of the house a tall, dark form was approaching. "Come in quickly," I whispered; "Arturo is listening." She obeyed me now, sinking wearily, as we entered my room, upon the waiting couch. I was devoutly thankful when I believed her to be sleeping. She had scarcely stirred for nearly an hour, and I told myself, wearily, that I, too, might perhaps catch a little rest. The day had been a perpetual strain. I was not expecting or intending to sleep soundly, but I felt a merciful relief in lying quietly by the side of Marjorie. For the night, at least, Mariposilla was safe. I could only hope that the morrow would dawn more tranquilly than the trying day now, at last, over. After the funeral, I intended to go immediately to Catalina with Marjorie and Mariposilla. I would wait no longer; the heartbroken child must leave San Gabriel at once. I was arranging my plans most carefully, when I fell asleep from absolute exhaustion. When I awoke, the moon was no longer casting fantastic shadows. My white walls were no longer softened by elfin touches. The shadow vines and pepper branches had disappeared in the honest light of the July sun. The morning was yet deliciously cool, but the day was fairly begun, even now brimful of sweet odors and bird-music. The mockers, who had sung all night, were not yet weary, but less belligerent. At night they sometimes quarreled, but in the morning their little disagreements were adjusted. As I delayed to open my eyes, half awake, but unwilling to shock too soon the last lingering desire to doze, I seemed to hear a familiar rebuke from the great pepper tree beyond my window. "Señora! Señora! Señora!" called an old mocker. "Get up! get up! get up!" screamed his neighbor from the next limb. I fancied now as I listened, that the birds had tried to awaken me in the night. Vaguely returned an ugly dream, with the ceaseless call of the persistent birds. In a moment I remembered all. The dead grandmother, Mariposilla, the midnight cry of the mockers--"Señora! Señora! Señora!" Mariposilla? Where was she? When had she slipped away? Did the birds alone know? The couch was empty. Each pillow bore the mark of the child's weary head. In the night, while I slept, my restless captive had fled. I sprang across the hall to her room; it was empty, and the bed undisturbed. Trembling I entered the death chamber. The Doña Maria was alone; her child was not with her. The good woman was again before the shrine of the Virgin, repeating a last prayer for her dead, preparatory to the painful duties of the morning.