the priest, bending over her, hot tears streaming
down his cheeks as she kissed his hand.

The girl had been beautiful, a type of that soft, southern beauty,
whose graces of form, full, regular features, and rich olive tint mark
them as truly Spanish, with but little admixture of inferior blood.
Her features were drawn and set now; but her great, brown eyes which
she raised to the priest were luminous with a wistful eagerness that
in this final hour became sacred.

"Marcelena," the priest hurriedly whispered to the woman. "I have
no--but it matters not now; she need not know that I come unprepared.
She must pass out of the world happy at last."

"There is a drop of wine that the doctor left; and I will fetch a bit
of bread," replied the woman, catching the meaning of the priest's
words.

"Bring it; and I will let her confess now."

Bending over the sinking girl, the priest bade her reveal the burden
resting on her conscience.

"_Carita_," he said tenderly, when the confession was ended, "fear
not. The blessed Saviour died for you. He went to prepare a place for
you and for us all. He forgave the sinful woman--_carita_, he forgives
you--yes, freely, gladly. He loves you, little one. Fear not what
Padre Lorenzo said. He is a sinful priest. Forget all now but the good
Saviour, who stands with open arms--with a smile on his beautiful
face--to welcome his dear child--his little girl--you, _carita_,
you."

"Padre--my babe?"

"Yes, child, it shall be cared for."

"But not by the Sisters"--excitedly--"not in an asylum--Padre, promise
me!"

"There, _carita_, it shall be as you wish."

"And you will care for it?"

"I, child?--ah, yes, I will care for it."

The girl sank back again with a smile of happiness. A deep silence
fell upon the room. At the feet of the priest Catalina huddled and
wept softly. Marcelena, in the shadow of the bed where she might not
be seen, rocked silently back and forth with breaking heart.

"Padre--you will--say Masses for me?" The words were scarcely
audible.

"Yes, _carita_."

"I--have no money--no money. He promised to give me--money--and
clothes--"

"There, _carita_, I will say Masses for you without money--every day,
for a year. And you shall have clothes--ah, carita, in heaven you
shall have everything."

The candle sputtered, and went out. The moon flooded the room with
ethereal radiance.

"Padre--lift me up--it grows dark--oh, Padre, you are so good to
me--so good."