"Don't be frightened, mama; Crispin stayed at the convent."

"At the convent? He stayed at the convent? Living?"

The child raised his eyes to hers.

"Ah!" she cried, passing from the greatest anguish to the utmost
joy. She wept, embraced her child, covered with kisses his wounded
forehead.

"And why are you hurt, my son? Did you fall?"

Basilio told her he had been challenged by the guard, ran, was shot
at, and a ball had grazed his forehead.

"O God! I thank Thee that Thou didst save him!" murmured the mother.

She went for lint and vinegar water, and while she bandaged his wound:

"Why," she asked, "did Crispin stay at the convent?"

Basilio looked at her, kissed her, then little by little told the
story of the lost money; he said nothing of the torture of his little
brother. Mother and child mingled their tears.

"Accuse my good Crispin! It's because we are poor, and the poor must
bear everything," murmured Sisa. Both were silent a moment.

"But you have not eaten," said the mother. "Here are sardines and
rice."

"I'm not hungry, mama; I only want some water."

"Yes, eat," said the mother. "I know you don't like dry sardines,
and I had something else for you; but your father came, my poor child."

"My father came?" and Basilio instinctively examined his mother's
face and hands.

The question pained the mother; she sighed.

"You won't eat? Then we must go to bed; it is late."

Sisa barred the door and covered the fire. Basilio murmured his
prayers, and crept on the mat near his mother, who was still on her
knees. She was warm, he was cold. He thought of his little brother,
who had hoped to sleep this night close to his mother's side, trembling
with fear in some dark corner of the convent. He heard his cries as
he had heard them in the tower; but Nature soon confused his ideas
and he slept.

In the middle of the night Sisa wakened him.

"What is it, Basilio? Why are you crying?"

"I was dreaming. O mama! it was a dream, wasn't it? Say it was nothing
but a dream!"

"What were you dreaming?"

He did not answer, but sat up to dry his tears.

"Tell me the dream," said Sisa, when he had lain down again. "I
cannot sleep."

"It is gone now, mama; I don't remember it all."

Sisa did not insist: she attached no importance to dreams.

"Mama," said Basilio after a moment of silence, "I'm not sleepy
either. I had a project last evening. I don't want to be a sacristan."

"What?"

"Listen, mam