sweet opportunities for little strolls in the dim green woods,
and for delightful conversations, as they sat under the stars, while the
camp-fire blazed among the picturesque groups of Mexicans playing monte
around it.

On the third afternoon, the Senora and Isabel were taking a siesta, but
Antonia could not sleep. After one or two efforts she was thoroughly
aroused by the sound of voices which had been very familiar to her in
the black days of the flight--those of a woman and her weary family of
seven children. She had helped her in many ways, and she still felt an
interest in her welfare. It appeared now to be assured. Antonia found
her camping in a little grove of mulberry trees. She had recovered her
health; her children were noisy and happy, and her husband, a tall,
athletic man, with a determined eye and very courteous manners, was
unharnessing the mules from a fine Mexican wagon; part of the lawful
spoils of war. They, too, were going home: "back to the Brazos," said
the woman affectionately; "and we're in a considerable hurry," she added,
"because it's about time to get the corn in. Jake lays out to plant
fifty acres this year. He says he can go to planting now with an easy
conscience; he 'lows he has killed enough Mexicans to keep him quiet a
spell."

They talked a short time together, and then Antonia walked slowly into
the deeper shadows of the wood. She found a wide rock, under trees
softly dimpling, pendulous, and tenderly green; and she sat down in the
sweet gloom, to think of the beloved dead. She had often longed for some
quiet spot, where, alone with God and nature, she could, just for once,
give to her sorrow and her love a free expression.

Now the opportunity seemed to be hers. She began to recall her whole
acquaintance with Dare--their hours of pleasant study--their sails upon
the river--their intercourse by the fireside--the most happy Sundays,
when they walked in the house of God together. In those days, what a
blessed future was before them! She recalled also the time of hope and
anxiety after the storming of the Alamo, and then the last heroic act
of his stainless life. She had felt sure that in such a session with
her own soul she would find the relief of unrestrained and unchecked
weeping. But we cannot kindle when we will either the fire or the
sensibility of the soul. She could not weep; tears were far from her.
Nay, more, she began to feel as if tears were not needed for one who
had fou