ould become
of the mother."

As she spoke a face appeared at the window above the flowers; the sweet
gentle face of a middle-aged woman, pale and pathetic, to which the
mantilla added grace and charm. There was a look of patient sorrow in
the dark eyes, lightened by a momentary gleam as they caught sight of
Rosalie.

"Sister Anastasia," said the subdued woman, "the sun is not more true to
its course than you to your hour. My child hungers for you. Next to her
mother you are her only consolation."

"I come, I come," replied Sister Anastasia. "Tell Rosita that in my bag
I bring her refreshment for the mind and food for the soul. Ah, senor,
this is indeed farewell, since you tell me your moments in Gerona are
numbered. The sun shines, the skies are blue, let these be an omen of
your life until we meet again. For by the love you bear Anselmo--you
must love him; we all love him--you must return. He will be here and so
shall I. We shall probably see no change until Heaven calls us to the
great change of all. This fair child above will have passed away, and
the mother's heart will be desolate. But Heaven that brings the sorrow
will heal the wound. Adieu senor. Adieu."

[Illustration: OLD HOUSES ON THE RIVER: GERONA.]

She glided through the archway and on the other side gained admittance
to the house. The door opened to receive her, a quiet voice was heard in
greeting. "You are an angel of light," it said. "Your new name should
have been Consuelo. But, oh, Anastasia, my child is worse. I fear me a
few days will see the ending, and I shall be lonely and desolate upon
earth. Why did Heaven take the child and spare the mother?"

"God knows best," returned Anastasia. "Let His will be done. Be sure He
who deals the blow will not forsake you. Your child is spared the
sorrows of earth. You will think of her as in safe keeping; taken from
the evil to come."

We heard no more. The door was closed. Let us leave Rosalie in her true
element, a ministering spirit shedding abroad more happiness and
consolation, more holy influence, than she at all realised; doing all
with that unconscious modesty which was one of her greatest gifts. The
picture of that last interview remains vividly in our memory. A little
mediaeval old house that has scarce its equal in Gerona; the flowers
behind the latticed panes and the sad, subdued face appearing above
them; Rosalie's eyes looking up in all their loveliness with an
expression of almost divine