s of the night, the shout of "Victory!" was
borne on by the blast. "My father, the Alamo is taken--Santa Anna has
conquered!" He struggled fearfully, a gurgling sound alone passed his
lips, and he fell back lifeless on his pillow.

Calmly the girl bent down and closed the eyes, covered decently the
convulsed features, and then, shrouding her face with the mantilla,
stept forth for assistance. The next day saw the Don borne to his last
resting-place. In accordance with the custom of the nation, no female
followed the bier. It was borne by two men, and followed by some dozen
children, and perhaps as many aged Mexicans. While just in advance
strode the Padre, repeating the Latin service for the dead, and
attended by four boys--two bearing censers, one a cross, and the other
holy water. With indecent haste they pressed forward, passing through
the church, and resting the bier for a moment on the altar, while an
Ave Maria was repeated. At a sign from the Padre, the procession
moved on to the churchyard, and, without further ceremony, the body
deposited in consecrated ground. Holy water was sprinkled profusedly
around, and then all departed, leaving him to sleep undisturbed the
last dreamless sleep.

Night found Inez sitting alone by her dreary, deserted hearth. Father,
mother, sister, cousin, all had passed on before her; and the last of
her house, she mused in her lonely home. A faint fire flickering on
the hearth just revealed the form and face of the Mexican maiden.
Her mantilla lay on the floor beside her, the black hair, thick and
straight, hung to the waist, her brilliant, piercing eyes were bent
vacantly on the fire, her dark cheek perfectly colorless as clay.

"Who is there to care for Inez now? Who will smooth my pillow, and
close my eyes, and lay me to rest?"

Her desolation of heart conquered; her head sunk upon her bosom, and
a deep, bitter groan burst from her lips. Slowly she rocked herself to
and fro in the loneliness of her spirit.

She had not loved her father warmly; there was little congeniality
between them, and her hasty rejection of Manuel's suit mutually
embittered their intercourse. For Nevarro, a sort of sisterly feeling
was entertained, no warmer affection. Yet she could love intensely. A
little sister had waked her tenderness--her heart clung to the gentle
child, so unlike herself. She sickened, and in a day went down to the
tomb: bitter was the grief of Inez, who felt little for her mother,