But we have reason to believe that the good man’s mind rose above this to a loftier range of ideas. He was deeply troubled that day, and no doubt, as he put his solemn face out of the opening in such a manner that it might have been taken for that of an Evangelist or a Father of the Church, his feelings were reverent and prayerful, and he craved something of the Creator. Still, this is mere hypothesis and devoid of foundation; it is put forward here for what it is worth, to fill up the vacuum which must exist in a total absence of data.
This much, at any rate, is certain. He stopped to say to his daughter:
“Every one was there.”
“And how is she this morning? Do you know?” asked Pepa in a voice so husky that it sounded as though her lungs, in their scorching thirst had consumed the air they breathed.
“Be hopeful, my child. The unfortunate woman passed a quieter night, and she is better, Moreno tells me.”
“So that she will recover....”
“It is very probable....” said Don Pedro, but the indifference of his tone showed that he was thinking of something else. “Really, my child, it seems as though God were piling every calamity on us at once!”
As he spoke the poor gentleman could not control his feelings. He held out his arms to his daughter who threw herself into them, and exclaimed in a voice choked with agitation: “Child of my heart—my jewel! How unfortunate you are!”
Pepa shed on her father’s shoulder the few tears she had saved from the Mass. Don Pedro, commanding himself, said with an effort: “But we must not exaggerate.—Nothing is positive.—To-morrow....”
Pepa went into her own room and her father retired to his, where, for the twentieth time, he read and re-read a number of letters and telegrams which had made a deep impression on a mind usually as bright and clear as the spring air and sunshine.