In spite of Amparo's pleadings and Doña Prudencia's urgings that they extend their stay at least another week, nothing would deter Mrs. Beltrán from starting at once for Barcelona. "You are a mother," she said to Doña Prudencia; "you know my heart yearns to find my child. I cannot wait. We might miss him by a day, an hour. No, no, I must go on."
"But you will return," begged Amparo; "say you will return. After your journeyings you will need a rest."
"Our home is yours," Doña Prudencia told Mrs. Beltrán. "I beg that you, your son and your daughter will remain with us so long as it may please you. I do not urge you further at present, but I say return."
Doña Benilda and Rodrigo, no less hospitably inclined, at last insisted upon accompanying their cousins part way upon the journey, and they left the little village of Cuesta with good wishes following them. "Hasta luego! Hasta que vuelva! Adios! Voy ustedes con Dios!" were the last words they heard as they set out upon their walk back to the little city. From thence they were to return to their inn to pack. Anselmo was prompt in sending the address he promised, and the next day they set their faces toward Barcelona. As far as Santander would Doña Benilda and Rodrigo see them, and then on alone to Barcelona, through wild mountain scenery, up steep grades, down into picturesque valleys, across mountain torrents, glimpses of blue sea on one side, mighty peaks crowned with ancient churches or monasteries on the other. A different Spain indeed from that of Madrid's brown Castilian plains, more exciting, more impressive, Anita thought it.
"Shall we find him? Shall we come back?" were the questions which constantly presented themselves as they sped on. There were long silences between the mother and daughter during the hours they were shut in a railway compartment alone. There was so much to wonder at in the outside world through which they were passing, so much to remember, so much meat for introspection, that the time passed rapidly. "It seems incredible that we should have learned to love those dear cousins so well in such a short time. Were ever such hospitable and truly kind people? Don't you love them?" said Anita as they turned from waving adieux to Doña Benilda and Rodrigo.
"I do indeed love them," replied her mother. "My own sisters could not have shown greater kindness than Benilda and Prudencia."
"One thing puzzles me," Anita spoke after a pause, during which she was watching from the window to see if she could catch another glimpse of a tenth-century church perched high on a mountain peak.
"And what is that?" inquired her mother.
"Why did Pilar—it was she of course—why did she write you that she knew nothing of a Pepé Beltrán from America? That was a number of years ago, wasn't it? Before he could have been of much assistance? Why should she not have been willing to give him up?"
"It could not have been more than five years ago that I wrote. It was only then that I gave up hope of finding him and my husband in America. It is evident from what we know of Pilar, that she clung tenaciously to her belief that I had wantonly left my home, and that she was not disposed to give the slightest information which might lead to restoring my children to me."