was not the necessaries so
much as the luxuries of life which the Senora missed--the changes of
raiment--the privacy--the quiet--the regularity of events.

During the whole of the 20th, there was almost a Sabbath stillness. It
was a warm, balmy day. The wearied children were under the wagons and
under the trees, sleeping the dead sleep of extreme exhaustion. The
mothers, wherever it was possible, slept also. The guides were a
little apart, listening and smoking. If they spoke, it was only in
monosyllables. Rest was so much more needed than food that little or no
attempt was made to cook until near sundown.

At dawn next morning--nay, a little before dawn--when all was chill,
and gray, and misty, and there was not a sound but the wailing of a sick
child, the Senora touched her daughters. Her voice was strange to them;
her face solemnly happy.

"Antonio! Isabel! I HAVE SEEN JUAN! I HAVE SEEN JUAN! My eyes were shut,
but I have seen him. He was a beautiful shadow, with a great, shadowy
host around him. He bent on me such eyes! Holy Mother! their love was
unfathomable, and I heard his voice. It was far off, yet near. 'Madre!'
he said, 'TOMORROW YOU SHALL HEAR FROM US.' Now I am happy. There are
words in my heart, but I cannot explain them to you. I know what they
mean. I will weep no more. They put my Juan's body in the grave, but
they have not buried HIM."

All day she was silent and full of thought, but her face was smiling and
hopeful, and she had the air of one waiting for some assured happiness.
About three o'clock in the afternoon she stood up quickly and cried,
"Hark! the battle has begun!" Every one listened intently, and after a
short pause the oldest of the guides nodded. "I'd give the rest of my
life to be young again," he said, "just for three hours to be young, and
behind Houston!"

"TO-MORROW WE SHALL HEAR."

The words fell from the Senora's lips with a singular significance.
Her face and voice were the face and voice of some glad diviner,
triumphantly carrying her own augury. Under a little grove of trees
she walked until sunset, passing the beads of her rosary through her
fingers, and mechanically whispering the prayers appointed. The act
undoubtedly quieted her, but Antonia knew that she lay awake all night,
praying for the living or the dead.

About ten o'clock of the morning of the 22d, a horseman was seen coming
toward the camp at full speed. Women and children stood breathlessly
waiting his ap