e churchyard.

Christmas had come and gone; a joyless season to many saddened hearts
accustomed to hail it with delight. The cousins had returned to
their home, and were busily arranging their yard, and making some
alterations for the New Year. Florence had begun of late to grow
cheerful again, and Mary watched, with silent joy, the delicate
tinge come back to her marble cheek. She seemed very calm, and almost
hopeful; and the spirit of peace descended and rested on their hearth.
Only one cause of sorrow remained--Mary's declining health: yet she
faded so gently, and almost painlessly, that their fears were ofttimes
lulled.

Dr. Bryant was still engaged in nursing the wounded, and only came
occasionally, regretting often that it was not in his power to see
them more frequently. A change had come over him of late; the buoyancy
of his spirits seemed broken, and his gay tone of raillery was hushed;
the bright, happy look of former days was gone, and a tinge of sadness
was sometimes perceptible on his handsome face. Mrs. Carlton had
spoken on her last visit of Frank's departure. She said she hoped
he would return soon, as his business required attention at home. He
would not leave, however, as long as his services were in requisition.

One Sabbath morning Inez attended mass--something unusual for her of
late, for since Nevarro's death she had secluded herself as much
as possible. She knelt in her accustomed place, with covered head,
seemingly rapt in devotion, but the eyes rested with an abstracted
expression on the wall beside her: her thoughts were evidently
wandering from her rosary, and now and then the black brows met as her
forehead wrinkled; still the fingers slid with mechanical precision up
and down the string of beads. The services were brief and the few who
had assembled quietly departed. As Inez rose to go, the Padre, who was
hastening down the aisle, was stopped by a Mexican in the garb of a
trader. They stood quite near, and the hoarse whisper of the latter
fell on her listening ear.

"Meet me at the far end of the Alameda, when the moon rises to-night."

"I will be there before you: is there any good news?"

A finger was laid on the lip, and a significant nod and wink were not
lost upon the maiden, who, bowing low before the Padre, walked slowly
away. The day wore on, much as Sabbaths ordinarily do, yet to her it
seemed as though darkness would never fall again, and many times she
looked out on the sha