It was nearly midnight when she got to Barcenillas. She crossed the silent plaza, passed through the gate, and began the ascent of the steep hill. There is a great broad road that winds up it, and at every “station” there is a lamp burning. She knelt at each as she reached it. But the place was very lonely; the eucalyptus trees shook and whispered to each other, and the lamps were dim and flickered in the rough wind. The night before there had been processions all through the night, crowds upon crowds going up the hill; she would not have been lonely then. But she could not get away, because of little Josef’s being ill and needing the water heated for his bath every hour. Yes, it would have been nicer last night, with all the priests, and all the chanting, and all the flaming torches. But the good God knew all about it,--why she did not come then, when she wanted to. She would not worry, but she said her prayers with chattering teeth, and many furtive looks behind her. At last she reached the summit, where in a little chapel burned the light that could be seen for miles around Malaga. There a solitary brother knelt, saying his beads, and keeping watch. She said her last prayers at the altar, and left the votive oil with the friar, who commended her piety and was very kind. As she came out, the clouds broke and the Paschal moon shone through them, and the broad road led down with smooth ease towards the sleeping, silent city. Her steps made just as lonely echoes on the stones of the deserted streets, but she felt herself favored of heaven, as no doubt she was, and all her fears were gone. It was after three o’clock when she let herself in at the kitchen door; and it was several weeks before her mistress learned, by accident, of the dolorous little pilgrimage. --MIRIAM COLES HARRIS. THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE cleave lea roseate tenderly mold fruitage verdurous crimson haunt sojourners fraud rhymes Come, let us plant the apple tree. Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mold with kindly care, And press it o’er them tenderly, As round the sleeping infant’s feet We softly fold the cradle sheet; So plant we the apple tree. What plant we in this apple tree? Buds which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple tree.