n the next day, without a word
to any one, and this last evening he had wandered out into the olive
orchard near the church. It was the close of a hot summer day, toward
the end of June; the sun was just set in the glowing western sky, and
all nature seemed to take a breath of relief in the cool evening air.
Pedro had been there only a few moments when Apolinaria appeared,
approaching from the river beyond the orchard, where she had been to see
some of her patients. Pedro, undecided whether to stay quiet and risk a
last meeting with her, or, as prudence whispered, to flee, hesitated too
long, and she was close to him before he awoke from his indecision; She
did not see him, in the fast gathering dusk, until close to the spot
where he was standing.

"You here, Pedro!" she exclaimed. "But it is not well to be out at this
time of the day. Don't you know you are doing wrong? I am astonished to
see you so careless," she added, smiling.

It was the first time Pedro had seen her smile in any but a grave, quiet
way. Now, accompanied as it was with the half-playful, half-deprecating
manner in which she uttered her chiding, it proved too much for him.

"Dona," he said, "I am going away to-morrow. I have struggled hard to
leave here without showing you my heart, and I should have done so had
not you come by this way to-night. Oh, why are you so far above me, that
I must think of you as one belonging to Heaven rather than earth? Why
are you so good and beautiful? For know, Dona, I love you, I love you,"
and Pedro poured out his confession of love in a swift rushing stream of
words.

Amazed at such vehemence in one who had always until now shown himself
the quietest of mortals, Apolinaria listened, as in a dream, hardly
comprehending the full significance of what she heard. At last, with a
start, she gave a slight shiver, and interrupted Pedro in the midst of
his impassioned speech.

"Pedro," she said gently and quietly, "I am sorry you have told me this,
more sorry you should have allowed such a feeling toward me to take root
and grow up in you, for I am sure, my friend, you will see that I could
not entertain any such change in my life as is implied in your words.
Once, when I was younger than I am now, and before I had taken up my
special work, I may have had dreams of a home and love as you are now
experiencing; but it was only for a short time, for, I thought, 'who
would choose a poor outcast foundling for a wife?' I will