e of these foolish and most unpleasant
self-punishments.

But such a belief was the rule in Don Alphonso's day, and when it could
lay so strong a hold upon grown men and women, it would, of course,
be likely to work in peculiar ways with thoughtful and conscientious
children, who, understanding little of the real meaning of sacrifice and
penance, felt it their duty to do something as proof of their belief.

So it came about that little ten-year-old Theresa, one of the numerous
girls of the Cepeda family, thought as deeply of these things as her
small mind was capable. She was of a peculiarly sympathetic, romantic,
and conscientious nature, and she felt it her duty to do something
to show her devotion to the faith for which her father had fought so
valiantly, and which the nuns and priests, who were her teachers, so
vigorously impressed upon her.

She had been taught that alike the punishment or the glory that must
follow her life on earth were to last forever. Forever! this was a word
that even a thoughtful little maiden like Theresa could not comprehend.
So she sought her mother.

"Forever? how long is forever, mother mine?" she asked.

But the Donna Beatrix was just then too deeply interested in the tragic
story of the two lovers, Calixto and Melibea, in the Senor Fernando de
Rojas' tear-compelling story, to be able to enter into the discussion of
so deep a question.

"Forever," she said, looking up from the thick and crabbed black-letter
pages, "why forever is forever, child--always. Pray do not trouble
me with such questions; just as I am in the midst of this beautiful
death-scene too."

The little girl found she could gain no knowledge from this source, and
she feared to question her stern and bigoted old father. So she sought
her favorite brother Pedro--a bright little fellow of seven, who adored
and thoroughly believed in his sister Theresa.

To Pedro, then, Theresa confided her belief that, if forever was so long
a time as "always," it would be most unpleasant to suffer "always," if
by any chance they should do any thing wrong. It would be far better,
so argued this little logician, to die now and end the problem, than to
live and run so great a risk. She told him, too, that, as they knew from
their mother's tales, the most beautiful, the most glorious way to die
was as a martyr among the infidel Moors. So she proposed to Pedro that
she and he should not say a word to any one, but just start off at once