rned away, first setting down the jug of milk and the bread on a
table. Then, with a sudden and still more curious mingling of justness
in her wrath, she returned, and lifting the coverlet from the bed,
spread it over Ramona, covering her carefully from head to foot. Then
she went out and again locked the door.

Felipe, from his bed, heard and divined all, but made no sound. "Thank
God, the poor child is asleep!" he said; "and my poor dear mother feared
to awake me by speaking to her! What will become of us all to-morrow!"
And Felipe tossed and turned, and had barely fallen into an uneasy
sleep, when his mother's window opened, and she sang the first line of
the sunrise hymn. Instantly Ramona joined, evidently awake and ready;
and no sooner did the watching Alessandro hear the first note of her
voice, than he struck in; and Margarita, who had been up for an hour,
prowling, listening, peering, wondering, her soul racked between her
jealousy and her fears,--even Margarita delayed not to unite; and
Felipe, too, sang feebly; and the volume of the song went up as rounded
and melodious as if all hearts were at peace and in harmony, instead of
being all full of sorrow, confusion, or hatred. But there was no one of
them all who was not the better for the singing; Ramona and Alessandro
most of all.

"The saints be praised," said Alessandro. "There is my wood-dove's
voice. She can sing!" And, "Alessandro was near. He watched all night. I
am glad he loves me," said Ramona.

"To hear those two voices." said the Senora; "would one suppose they
could sing like that? Perhaps it is not so bad as I think."

As soon as the song was done, Alessandro ran to the sheepfold, where
Felipe had said he would see him. The minutes would be like years to
Alessandro till he had seen Felipe.

Ramona, when she waked and found herself carefully covered, and bread
and milk standing on the table, felt much reassured. Only the Senora's
own hand had done this, she felt sure, for she had heard her the
previous evening turn the key in the lock, then violently take it out;
and Ramona knew well that the fact of her being thus a prisoner would be
known to none but the Senora herself. The Senora would not set servants
to gossiping. She ate her bread and milk thankfully, for she was very
hungry. Then she set her room in order, said her prayers, and sat down
to wait. For what? She could not imagine; in truth, she did not much
try. Ramona had passed now into a