ernoon of the third day Apolinaria
arrived at her destination, tired out, but happy to be, at last, where
she was so much needed. Here she found a scene of desolation: more than
half of the neophyte population down with the fell disease; the two
fathers used up with the care of their especial work; the few Mexican
women available for nurses without a head to take charge of affairs at
the hospital. Apolinaria, forgetting her fatigue from the long, hard
ride, set to work at once where she was most needed, in the hospital;
and with her skill and experience she, in a few days, wrought a
wonderful change. It was a simple matter, after all, and the fathers
had acted wisely in sending for her, as she supplied what was lacking--a
head; and after she had fitted herself into her proper place, everything
went on smoothly, and Apolinaria and her assistants were able to cope
with the plague successfully.

One morning, while it was still at its height, Apolinaria, on making her
visit for the day to the hospital, found a new patient. He was a soldier
from the presidio, six miles away, who had developed symptoms of the
disease, and had been dismissed and sent to the mission hospital, while
he was yet able to bear the journey; a handsome young man, hardly more
than a youth, with all the fire, vivacity and pride of the Spaniard,
tempered in his case with a touch of sadness, lending an indefinable
charm to his countenance. It was an attractive face, and so Apolinaria
found it; but with a second glance at the young solder, she had an
uneasy feeling that she had seen him before. She had met so few people
in her life, that it was not difficult for her to remember the youth as
one of her young companions from the asylum in Mexico, who had come with
her to Nueva California nearly fifteen years before. But if she was a
little slow in placing the stranger in her memory, he, on the contrary,
as soon as his eyes rested on her, showed, by the lighting up of his
countenance, that he already knew and recognized her. As she approached
he held out his hand, crying eagerly:

"Apolinaria, tu me recuerdas (You remember me)?"

"Surely, Pedro, how could I forget one of those who were so large a part
of my life in the old days? But little did I expect to see you here, and
it grieves me sorely to find you ill."

"That is a little thing, Apolinaria, after many of the hardships I have
been through since we came to this country. But I shall not talk
of that.