"Is that all?" asked Catalina.
"Yes," said Rosa; "that is the end of the letter."
"Poor little thing!"
There was a long silence. I think Catalina was thinking of her mother, for her face had softened for once.
Teresa sat with her large agile fingers flying—those strong fingers that were never idle;—the metallic sound of her needles alternating with the happy song of the canaries, from whose cages the curtains had again been removed.
Never in my life had I lingered very long to observe Catalina, but this afternoon I could not help but notice how pale and delicate she really was. Propped up on her pillows with her golden hair falling around her shoulders, one would not have guessed her to be more than fourteen years old, instead of eighteen. Seeing her thus after her day of sufferings, I pardoned all her bad humor and hardness of heart toward Paula; and I had a great desire to take her in my arms but I did not dare do such a thing—fearing she would refuse my caresses.
"Teresa," she said suddenly, closing her eyes to keep back the tears, "do you think that it hurts very much when one dies?"
"Why do you ask that?" and Teresa looked at her quite surprised.
"I was thinking of Uncle John."
"That depends, Catalina, that depends. There are some persons who die tranquilly in their sleep with no pain at all, but in the case of others it is quite the contrary."