Most of his life he had lacked the power of affection, except with Caterina. He bowed his head; he could say no more; he felt beaten, dried, useless. Life would have been all right had he been able to reach outside himself. Carry me downstairs; put me to bed. The fool. The old, ugly fool. Tired. Carry me. When Don Fernando was taken away, Angelina began her vigil, she and the nun. She heard workers sawing the eucalyptus, observed the moon's climb, felt the nip of the night air, dozed fitfully in her easy chair. Awake, she prayed for her girl, a faithless prayer, since she believed Caterina fatally ill; she had seen too many children pass away with fever and dysentery to have any illusions. Doll faces--looming through a bad dream--wept and pled for Caterina. Chapel music sounded ... there was no God, not really ... only wandering.... The nun stretched on a cot and snored, her responsibility forgotten. Toward dawn, the birds began, high-flying parrots and then the garden orioles. The caged birds in the patio answered, and a strange bird, in the grove behind the house, scraped tin note against tin note. Vicente, sleepy eyed, yawning, padded in, barefooted. He stood silently by his sister's bedside. Until now, he had shunned her room unless she asked for him. Ever since Grandpa had been confined to his bed, Vicente had feared death, and, alarmed by Caterina's white face, her stillness, he had kept away. After a glance he stole downstairs, into the kitchen, hungry, cold, uneasy. The chapel bell clanged its stiff bell for Mass and, after Mass, Gabriel went to sit beside Caterina. She brightened, finding him there, wiping his glasses, smiling. "Were you here all night?" "No, I just came in." "I thought I saw you all night ... holding a candle ... for me." "No, my angel, that was your mother who was with you." "I don't remember her." "You were sleeping." "I want to get better." "You are better. I can see you're better today," he lied. "Has Doctor come?" "He'll come shortly, with new medicines. Let me call Carmela. It's time for you to eat. Then I'll come back and read to you." "I'm not hungry." He hoped food might strengthen her; her anguish filled him with pity and love. Such a sweet child. The small face had darkness working from within--around the eyes, inside them; their own personal magic had dimmed. Her lips moved stiffly. What was it his mother had said? When the sight darkens, the shadow of the cross is beckoning. He shook his head, sorely troubled. His fingers drummed on his knees. He wished Dr. Velasco could arrive, by some miracle, before nightfall. Gabriel got up, determined to help. "Carmela, Carmela," he called from the window. "Yes." "Can you bring the child something to eat? I think she should have something." "Right away, Padre. I'll heat something, some atole. I'll be right along." Sitting on the foot of her bed, he began to talk to her: