"I am so glad to see you," she said. "It feels safer. They almost made me a nun, you know. And that horrid old Sor Teresa--oh, I beg your pardon! I forgot she was your sister." "She is hardly my sister," answered Sarrion with a cynical laugh. "It is against the rules you know to permit oneself any family affection when one is in religion." "You mustn't blame her for that," said Juanita. "One never knows. You cannot tell why she went into religion. Perhaps she never meant to. You do not understand." "Oh, yes I do," answered Sarrion bitterly. They were hurrying towards the carriage and a man waiting at the open door took a step forward and raised his hat, showing in the moonlight a high bald forehead and a clean shaven face. He was slight and neat. "This is an old school friend of mine," said Sarrion by way of introduction. "He is a bishop," he added. And Juanita knelt on the road while he laid his hand on her hair with a smile half amused and half pathetic. He looked twenty years younger than Sarrion, and laying aside his sacerdotal manner as suddenly as he had assumed it on Juanita's instinctive initiation, he helped her into the carriage with a grave and ceremonious courtesy. "This is your own carriage," she said when they were all seated. "Yes--from Torre Garda," answered Sarrion. "And it is Pietro who is driving. So you are among friends." "And dear old Perro running at the side," exclaimed Juanita, jumping up and putting her head out of the window to encourage Perro with a greeting. Her mantilla flying in the wind blew across the bishop's face which that youthful-looking dignitary endured with patience. "And there is a hot-water tin for our feet. I feel it through my slippers; for my feet are wet with the snow. How delightful!" And Juanita stooped down to warm her hands. "You have thought of everything--you and Marcos," she said. "You are so kind to me. I am sure I am very grateful ... to every one." She turned towards the bishop, kindly including him in this expression of thanks; which she could not do more definitely because she did not know his name. It was obvious that she was not a bit afraid of him seeing that he had no vestments with him. "At one time, on the ramparts, I was sorry I had come," she explained in a friendly way to him, "but now I am not. Of course it is all very well for me. It is great fun. But for you it is different; on such a cold night. I do not know why everybody takes so much trouble about me." "Half of Spain is taking trouble about you, my child," was the answer. "Ah! that is about my money. That is quite different. But Marcos, you know, and Uncle Ramon are the only people who take any trouble about me, for myself you understand." "Yes, I understand," answered the great man humbly, as if he were trying to, but was not quite sure of success.