“The mother–Ysandra. Where lies she now? Little one, do you know that?”
“Do I not? In the consecrated ground of the old mission itself. With all the good dead priests sleeping about her. Rose vines cover her grave and my own mother tends them herself. Little Luis is made to water it, sometimes, though, for that is a good way to keep her memory green, my mother says. Near by is where my father rests. Would–would you wish to sleep there, too, beside them both, and where Luis could bring flowers to you as to her?”
“I may? You–are–willing? Would–your mother–so kind–little Luis––”
“My mother pities and helps all who suffer. You suffer, poor man, and I wish that she were here to tell you ‘yes’ herself.”
But he had closed his eyes and she could not know if he had heard her, though she was glad to see that the look of pain had almost left his features. She did not speak again but sat quite still until, at last, her hand grew numb and she turned toward the nurse, whispering:
“Can I move it? Will it disturb him? He seems to be asleep.”
The nurse bent over her patient, then gently answered:
“Yes, darling. Your task is over. Nothing will ever trouble him again. He is at peace–asleep.”