t she was sure that Alessandro was dead; but she was not, for
she still listened, still watched. Each day she walked out on the river
road, and sat waiting till dusk. At last came a day when she could not
go; her strength failed her. She lay all day on her bed. To the Senora,
who asked frigidly if she were ill, she answered: "No, Senora, I do not
think I am ill, I have no pain, but I cannot get up. I shall be better
to-morrow."

"I will send you strong broth and a medicine," the Senora said; and sent
her both by the hands of Margarita, whose hatred and jealousy broke down
at the first sight of Ramona's face on the pillow; it looked so much
thinner and sharper there than it had when she was sitting up. "Oh,
Senorita! Senorita!" she cried, in a tone of poignant grief, "are you
going to die? Forgive me, forgive me!"

"I have nothing to forgive you, Margarita," replied Ramona, raising
herself on her elbow, and lifting her eyes kindly to the girl's face
as she took the broth from her hands. "I do not know why you ask me to
forgive you."

Margarita flung herself on her knees by the bed, in a passion of
weeping. "Oh, but you do know, Senorita, you do know! Forgive me!"

"No, I know nothing," replied Ramona; "but if you know anything, it is
all forgiven. I am not going to die, Margarita. I am going away," she
added, after a second's pause. Her inmost instinct told her that she
could trust Margarita now. Alessandro being dead, Margarita would no
longer be her enemy, and Margarita could perhaps help her. "I am going
away, Margarita, as soon as I feel a little stronger. I am going to a
convent; but the Senora does not know. You will not tell?"

"No, Senorita!" whispered Margarita,--thinking in her heart, "Yes, she
is going away, but it will be with the angels."--"No, Senorita, I will
not tell. I will do anything you want me to."

"Thanks, Margarita mia," replied Ramona. "I thought you would;" and she
lay back on her pillow, and closed her eyes, looking so much more like
death than like life that Margarita's tears flowed faster than before,
and she ran to her mother, sobbing out, "Mother, mother! the Senorita is
ill to death. I am sure she is. She has taken to her bed; and she is as
white as Senor Felipe was at the worst of the fever."

"Ay," said old Marda, who had seen all this for days back; "ay, she has
wasted away, this last week, like one in a fever, sure enough; I have
seen it. It must be she is starving herself to de