from here. Perhaps when you
are married to Mr. Macdonald you will have room in your kitchen for
me?"

"We must not build on shadows, Maggie."

"And there is that Alvino, a cunning man in a garden. You should see
how he charms the flowers and vegetables--but you have seen, it is his
work here, all this is his work."

"If there is ever a home of my own--if it ever comes to that
happiness--"

"God hasten the day!"

"Then there will be room for both of you, Maggie."

Frances rose from the table, and stood looking though the window where
the sun's friendly hand had reached in to caress her a few minutes
gone. There was no gleam of it now, only a dull redness on the horizon
where it had fallen out of sight, the red of iron cooling upon the
anvil.

"In four weeks he will be able to kneel at the altar with you," said
Maggie, making a clatter with the stove lids in her excitement, "and
in youth that is only a day. And I have a drawn piece of fine linen,
as white as your bosom, that you must wear over your heart on that
day. It will bring you peace, far it was made by a holy sister and it
has been blessed by the bishop at Guadalupe."

"Thank you, Maggie. If that day ever comes for me, I will wear it."

Maggie came nearer the window, concern in her homely face, and stood
off a little respectful distance.

"You want to be with him, you should be there at his side, and I will
open the door for you," she said.

"You will?" Frances started hopefully.

"Once inside, no man would lift a hand to put you out."

"But how am I going to get inside, Maggie, with that sentry at the
door?"

"I have been thinking how it could be done, miss. Soon it will be
dark, and with night comes fear. Miss is with him now; she is there
alone."

Frances turned to her, such pain in her face as if she had been
stabbed.

"Why should you go over that again? I know it!" she said, crossly.
"That has nothing to do with my going into the room."

"It has much," Maggie declared, whispering now, treasuring her plot.
"The old one is upstairs, sleeping, and she will not wake until I
shake her. Outside the soldiers make their fires and cook, and Alvino
in the barn sings 'La Golondrina'--you hear him?--for that is sad
music, like his soul. Very well. You go to your room, but leave the
door open to let a finger in. When it is just creeping dark, and the
soldiers are eating, I will run in where the one sits beside the door.
My hair will be flying like