id the cook. "Everybody sees you're a
faithful woman; the children are like their father!"

Sisa stifled a sob, and, at the end of her strength, sat down.

"Don't cry here," said the cook still more roughly, "the curate is ill;
don't bother him! Go cry in the street!"

The poor woman got up, almost by force, and went down the steps with
the sisters, who were still gossiping of the curate's illness. Once
on the street she looked about uncertain; then, as if from a sudden
resolution, moved rapidly away.

XVII.

STORY OF A SCHOOLMASTER.

The lake, girt with hills, lies tranquil, as if it had not been
shaken by yesterday's tempest. At the first gleam of light which
wakes the phosphorescent spirits of the water, almost on the bounds
of the horizon, gray silhouettes slowly take shape. These are the
barks of fishermen drawing in their nets; cascos and paraos shaking
out their sails.

From a height, two men in black are silently surveying the lake. One
is Ibarra, the other a young man of humble dress and melancholy face.

"This is the place," said the stranger, "where the gravedigger brought
us, Lieutenant Guevara and me."

Ibarra uncovered, and stood a long time as if in prayer.

When the first horror at the story of his father's desecrated grave
had passed, he had bravely accepted what could not be undone. Private
wrongs must go unavenged, if one would not add to the wrongs of the
country: Ibarra had been trained to live for these islands, daughters
of Spain. In his country, too, a charge against a monk was a charge
against the Church, and Crisostomo was a loyal Catholic; if he knew
how in his mind to separate the Church from her unworthy sons, most of
his fellow-countrymen did not. And, again, his intimate life was all
here. The last of his race, his home was his family; he loved ideally,
and he loved the goddaughter of the malevolent priest. He was rich,
and therefore powerful still--and he was young. Ibarra had taken up
his life again as he had found it.

His prayer finished, he warmly grasped the young man's hand.

"Do not thank me," said the other; "I owe everything to your father. I
came here unknown; your father protected me, encouraged my work,
furnished the poor children with books. How far away that good
time seems!"

"And now?"

"Ah! now we get along as best we can."

Ibarra was silent.

"How many pupils have you?"

"More than two hundred on the list--in the classes, fifty-five."