had given her
mother in the days of their courtship; she would do some work, and give
to the Holy Mother some candles and flowers; but he must come back, and
he must not go away again whatsoever she did.

She knelt upon the stone floor, her hands wrung together, pouring forth
the same words breathlessly over and over, each reiteration more intense
than the last, all her young strength going out into the appeal.

And still she had not yet reached the point of knowing what she should
do and say when he came.

When she tried to rise to her feet she was obliged to make two efforts
before she succeeded. She had given such a passion of strength to her
siege that she was almost exhausted, and she went out into the dazzling
sunlight trembling. She did this day after day, day after day, and at
night she waited by the wall, but the road was always the same.

And she could hear nothing--not a word. She could not ask, even though
sometimes as she sat and gazed at Jose with hungry eyes it seemed as if
she must drop dead if he did not speak. But he did not speak because he
could have told her but little, and was quite secure in his belief that
the mere mention of Sebastiano's name angered her.

So the time went by--weeks and months--and at last one evening she went
to the church and prayed a new prayer.

"Sacred Mother," she said, "I have sold the comb and the necklace, and
I have worked and can keep my word. I have bought a little golden heart.
And if he comes"--in a fainter whisper--"if he comes I will say nothing
ill to him."

That night, for the first time, she heard of Sebastiano.

Little Carlos came in and was full of news.

"They say that Sebastiano has had great success, and that perhaps he
will go to America."

"Where is America?" asked Jovita.

"It is at the other end of the world, and never yet have the people seen
a bull-fight."

"Never?" said Jose, staring. "That is impossible!"

"It is true," answered Carlos. "And they are rich, and like new things;
and the king has spoken of sending for Sebastiano. He will be rich
enough to build a palace for his old age."

A few days later, in the dusk of the evening, there crept into the
church a little figure familiar to the painted saints and the waxen
Virgin. But to-day it wore a changed aspect. It moved slowly at first,
reluctantly; the brilliant little face was pale; the eyes wild with
torture. A moment it stood before the altar, and then flung up its arms
with