"Here is Marta, who wants to say good by."
"Come nearer, Marta ... Are you becoming reconciled yet?"
"What remedy have I, Maria," replied the girl, struggling to repress her sobs.
"No, sister; you must resign yourself gladly, and be thankful to the Lord for the favors which he has heaped upon me.... You will always be good, will you not?... Console papa.... Don't forget those prayers which I gave you, nor fail to read the books of which I told you.... Come to hear mass every day.... Try to be always earnest and humble...."
Ah, no! Martita would not try, would not try. As she was born good and humble there is no need of striving for it. In this regard the bride of the Lord may be at rest.
The small room where the two nuns stood near the grating seemed like a prison cell by its ugliness and gloom. Their tunics stood out like two white spots against the black lattice.
The friends took turns in speaking, or all spoke at once to Maria, with a strange mixture of admiration, of pity, of curiosity, and of affection. They asked a thousand impertinent questions and many ridiculous requests about prayers, medals, and other things. A few young fellows who had belonged to the old tertulias at the Elorza mansion, had slipped in with the crowd, and were gazing with wide-open eyes of wonder at the new nun, but dared not speak to her. She showed herself serene and lovely, and called them by name with a certain reassuring condescension, giving them messages for their families. The boldest was the ceremonious youth of the banged hair, who stepped up, and reaching the grating, very much stifled, called the novice by her new name, saying,—
"Sister Juana, I want to ask you a favor; please give me as a remembrance a few orange blossoms from the crown which you wear...."
"If the mother is willing...." murmured Maria, turning her face to the Mother Superior.
She bowed assent, and the gift of orange flowers was liberal and gracefully granted.