Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

As she spoke a face appeared at the window above the flowers; the sweet gentle face of a middle-aged woman, pale and pathetic, to which the mantilla added grace and charm. There was a look of patient sorrow in the dark eyes, lightened by a momentary gleam as they caught sight of Rosalie.

"Sister Anastasia," said the subdued woman, "the sun is not more true to its course than you to your hour. My child hungers for you. Next to her mother you are her only consolation."

"I come, I come," replied Sister Anastasia. "Tell Rosita that in my bag I bring her refreshment for the mind and food for the soul. Ah, señor, this is indeed farewell, since you tell me your moments in Gerona are numbered. The sun shines, the skies are blue, let these be an omen of your life until we meet again. For by the love you bear Anselmo—you must love him; we all love him—you must return. He will be here and so shall I. We shall probably see no change until Heaven calls us to the great change of all. This fair child above will have passed away, and the mother's heart will be desolate. But Heaven that brings the sorrow will heal the wound. Adieu señor. Adieu."

She glided through the archway and on the other side gained admittance to the house. The door opened to receive her, a quiet voice was heard in greeting. "You are an angel of light," it said. "Your new name should have been Consuelo. But, oh, Anastasia, my child is worse. I fear me a few days will see the ending, and I shall be lonely and desolate upon earth. Why did Heaven take the child and spare the mother?"

"God knows best," returned Anastasia. "Let His will be done. Be sure He who deals the blow will not forsake you. Your child is spared the sorrows of earth. You will think of her as in safe keeping; taken from the evil to come."

We heard no more. The door was closed. Let us leave Rosalie in her true element, a ministering spirit shedding abroad more happiness and consolation, more holy influence, than she at all realised; doing all with that unconscious modesty which was one of her greatest gifts. The picture of that last interview remains vividly in our memory. A little mediæval old house that has scarce its equal in Gerona; the flowers behind the latticed panes and the sad, subdued face appearing above them; Rosalie's eyes looking up in all their loveliness with an expression of almost divine sympathy.

We went our way, richer for having known her. It was our last look upon these cathedral precincts. The afternoon shadows were lengthening as we went back through the quiet streets to the hotel. All the brilliant glory of the day had departed. These repeated farewells were depressing, yet not quite over, for as we approached the Fonda who should be standing at their own door but Ernesto and his mother. We had not met them since the previous day when they had disappeared within the lion's den, and we had gone round to the reeds and the river.

"Ernesto! how is this? Why are you not at school?"

"School, señor!" opening very wide eyes. "Fair week is holiday. We should have a revolution if they attempted school upon us. For this one week in the year we change places with our fathers and mothers, pastors and teachers. They obey and we command."