ng
her lightly on the brow, exclaimed that she had never been happier in a
conquest for the Church against the vileness of the world. Then she had
dropped the conventional speech of her calling, and said with an
expression that made her look so young, so curiously virginal, that the
novice had held her breath: "Remember that here there is nothing to
interrupt the life of the imagination, nothing to change its course,
like the thousand conflicting currents that batter memory and character
to pieces in the world. In this monotonous round of duty and prayer the
mind is free, the heart remains ever young, the soul unspotted; so that
when----" She had paused, hesitated a moment, then abruptly left the
room, and Teresa had wept a torrent in her disappointment that this
first of California's heroines--whose place in history and romance was
assured--had not broken her reserve and told her all that story of many
versions. She had begged Sister Maria Sal--the sister of Luis Argueello's
first wife--to tell it her, but the old nun had reproved her sharply for
sinful curiosity and upon one occasion boxed her ears. But tonight she
might be in a softer mood, and Teresa resolved that when the last rites
were over she would make her talk of Concha Argueello.

A few moments later she was lifted to her feet by a shaking but still
powerful arm.

"Come!" whispered Sister Maria. "It is time to prepare. The others have
gone. It is singular that the oldest and the youngest should have loved
her best. Ay! Dios de mi alma! I never thought that Concha Argueello
would die. Grow old she never did, in spite of the faded husk. We will
look at her once more."

The dead nun in her coffin lay in the little parlor where she had turned
so many wavering souls from fleeting to eternal joys. Her features,
wasted during years of delicate health, seemed to regain something of
their youth in the soft light of the candles. Or was it the long black
eyelashes that hid the hollows beneath the eyes?--or the faint
mysterious almost mocking smile? Had the spirit in its eternal youth
paused in its flight to stamp a last sharp impress upon the prostrate
clay? Never had she looked so virginal, and that had been one of the
most arresting qualities of her always remarkable appearance; but there
was something more--Teresa held her breath. Somehow, dead and in her
coffin, she looked less saintly than in life; although as pure and
sweet, there was less of heavenly peace on