precipice, she saw a piece of Basilio's
blouse. She got up, took it, and examined it in the sunlight. There
were blood spots on it, but Sisa did not seem to see them. She bent
over and continued to look at this rag from her child's clothing,
raised it in the air, bathing it in the brazen rays. Then, as if
the last gleam of light within her had finally gone out, she looked
straight at the sun, with wide-staring eyes.

At length she began to wander about, crying out strange sounds. One
hearing her would have been frightened; her voice had a quality the
human larynx would hardly know how to produce.

The sun went down; night surprised her. Perhaps Heaven gave her
sleep, and an angel's wing, brushing her pale forehead, took away
that memory which no longer recalled anything but griefs. The next
day Sisa roamed about, smiling, singing, and conversing with all the
beings of great Nature.

Three days passed, and the inhabitants of San Diego had ceased to talk
or think of unhappy Sisa and her boys. Maria Clara, who, accompanied
by Aunt Isabel, had just arrived from Manila, was the chief subject
of conversation. Every one rejoiced to see her, for every one loved
her. They marvelled at her beauty, and speculated about her marriage
with Ibarra. On this evening, Crisostomo presented himself at the
home of his fiancee; the curate arrived at the same moment. The house
was a delicious little nest among orange-trees and ylang-ylang. They
found Maria by an open window, overlooking the lake, surrounded by
the fresh foliage and delicate perfume of vines and flowers.

"The winds blow fresh," said the curate; "aren't you afraid of
taking cold?"

"I don't feel the wind, father," said Maria.

"We Filipinos," said Crisostomo, "find this season of autumn and
spring together delicious. Falling leaves and budding trees in
February, and ripe fruit in March, with no cold winter between,
is very agreeable. And when the hot months come we know where to go."

The priest smiled, and the conversation turned to the pueblo and the
festival of its patron saint, which was near.

"Speaking of fetes," said Crisostomo to the curate, "we hope you will
join us in a picnic to-morrow, near the great fig-tree in the wood. The
arrangements are all made as you wished, Maria. A small party is to
start for the fishing-ground before sunrise," he went on to the curate,
"and later we hope to be joined by all our friends of the pueblo."

The curate said he