still a paradise, and his mother at the head of all
good angels. _Les beaux jours de la vie_--short-lived, but eternally
remembered. So, parents, indulge your children but do not spoil them.
The one is quite possible without the other.

It was to be a day of encounters. We followed our happy pair down the
deserted street, admiring the graceful walk of the mother, the boy's
tall, straight, well-knit form and light footstep. As they disappeared
round the corner leading to the noisy scene of action, a quiet figure
issued from beneath the wonderful arcades and approached in our
direction. She was dressed as a Sister of Mercy and seemed to glide
along with noiseless movements.

"Rosalie," we breathed, turning to H. C. for confirmation.

"Without doubt," he replied. "There could not be two Rosalies in one
town."

"Or in one world."

On the impulse of the moment we went up and, bareheaded, spoke to her;
felt we knew her--had known her long. Anselmo's vivid confession had
taken the place of time and custom.

Yes, it was Rosalie. A more beautiful face was seldom seen, never a more
holy; all the refinement and repose of Anselmo's added to an infinite
feminine grace and softness. They were even strangely alike, as though
the same impulse in their lives, a constant dwelling upon each other,
their fervent, though purified, affection had created a similarity of
feature and expression. Hers was the face of one whose life is turned
steadily heavenwards, to whom occasionally, whether waking or sleeping,
a momentary glimpse of unseen glories is vouchsafed, one whose daily
work on earth is that of a ministering spirit. As far as it is possible
or permitted here, Rosalie bore the evidence of a perfect and unalloyed
life that had never looked back or attempted to serve two masters.
Perhaps she might have become a mystic, but the serious and practical
nature of her work kept her mind in a healthy groove, free from
introspection. She was walking her lonely pilgrimage along the narrow
road of her dream with firm, unflinching steps. The end, far off though
it might yet be for Anselmo and for her, could not be doubted.

"_Ma soeur_, you are Anastasia, devoted to good works; and once were
Rosalie devoted to Anselmo," we said, without waiting to choose our
words. "There could not be another Rosalie in Gerona, as there could not
be another Anastasia."

"Nay," she returned, "I am Rosalie still, and still devoted to Anselmo.
There is no pa