Well, the little girl, contrary to the doctors, began to mend, and finally was entirely restored to health. Pilar was most grateful, and said many _Aves_ in thanksgiving. The winter was a busy one, and then Lent came and seemed not less busy in that big household. Pilar did not forget the pound of oil, but there never seemed a moment when she could ask a half day to go and carry it to the shrine. Holy Week came, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,--what should she do! She could scarcely get away from her work even to go out to her parish church on Holy Thursday to say a little prayer before the Repository, where, throned in flowers and lighted with myriad candles, the Blessed Sacrament is kept till the morning of Good Friday. As to going to seven churches and saying her prayers before each Repository as other people did, that, alas! was not “for the likes of her.” She had a dumb, deep-down feeling, however, that the good God knew, and that it would be all right. On her way back from her hurried prayer at the church, a procession passed which she watched for a moment. But this only proved painful, for it had begun to rain, and her pious Southern soul was aflame with wrath that the image of the Blessed Redeemer should be exposed to the storm. “They don’t care about wetting his dear curls,” she cried, “as long as they can have a good procession.” She shook her fist at the crowd, and came away in tears. Her mistress, a devout Catholic, tried to console her by reminding her that, after all, it was only an image and not the dear Lord she loved. Oh, she knew _that_; but “it was cruel, but it was shameful!” She felt as a mother would feel if the dress of her dead baby, or its little half-worn shoe, were spoiled by the caprice or cold-heartedness of some one who had no feeling for it. All together Holy Thursday was not very consoling to Pilar, and the pound of oil grew heavier every hour. The next day, Good Friday, she had only time to go to church through the silent streets, where no wheels were heard, and say her prayers and look at the black, black altars and the veiled statues. That night, after her work was done, and the last baby had been served with its last porridge, she put her kitchen in hurried order, and stole out silently. She had bought the pound of oil at a little shop in the next street and, hiding it under her shawl, turned her steps towards Barcenillas. The night was black and tempestuous. A hot, dry wind blew; occasionally a gust brought a few drops of rain, but more often it was a gale which made the street lamps blink, and whirled the dust around her. It was a long way to the suburb; it was late; there were few abroad, but no matter, the good Lord knew why she was out, and He would take care of her. There are no street cars running in the days of Holy Week. From Holy Thursday till after the cathedral bells ring for first vespers on Holy Saturday, no wheels move in the streets of Malaga.