st tense for our affection, senor, which sweetens my days
and makes me brave in life's battles."

She seemed neither surprised nor startled by our sudden address. Calm
self-possession never for a moment forsook her, though in our rashness
we might have been probing a half-healed wound or rousing long dormant
emotions.

But it was far otherwise. Naturally as Anselmo had told us his story she
replied to our greeting. They were a wonderful pair, these two. United,
their careers would have been very different, but never otherwise than
pure and holy. As we spoke to her a slight colour mounted to her pale,
lovely face, a light came into her eyes, a sweet smile parted the lips.
She looked almost childlike in her innocence, utter absence of
self-consciousness.

"Yes, I was Rosalie," she repeated; "and I am Rosalie still, though my
life compels me to adopt a new name. But I ever think of myself as
Rosalie, and in my dreams am Rosalie of the days gone by. Sometimes my
mother visits me in those dreams and calls me Rosalie. If we retain our
names in the next world I shall be Rosalie once more. Senor, you have
been with Anselmo and he has told you our story--or how could you know?"

"It is true. We have been with Anselmo, were with him this morning and
parted at mid-day. As the clock struck twelve we stood on the ruined
citadel and saw you cross the square of San Pedro."

"Ah, senor, I saw you also, for I recognised Anselmo. He is never within
many yards of me but seen or unseen I know it. Some spiritual instinct
never fails to tell me he is near."

"You are both remarkable. Your love and constancy ought to be placed
side by side with the histories of Paul and Virginia, Abelard and
Heloise. Yet you are distinct and different from these, as you are above
them."

"Senor, if we only knew, there are thousands of histories in the world
similar to our own, but they are never heard of. Shakespeare records a
Juliet, Chateaubriand an Atala, and they become immortal; but what of
the numberless heroines who have had no writer to send them down to
posterity? Depend upon it they are as the sand of the sea. And is it so
much to give up for Heaven? We possess each other still, Anselmo and I;
and the possession is for ever. You think it strange to hear a Sister of
Mercy talking of love in this calm and passionless way," she smiled.
"You imagine me cold and severe. You do not believe that I have feelings
deep as the sea, wide as eternity. It