“Be seated, senor,” said Luisa, motioning to a chair, and placing one for herself, so as to partially screen her mother, whom she saw was strangely perturbed.
Senora Canelo tore the wrapper apart, and laying upon an inner package was a note superscribed with her name, in a bold, firm hand that seemed familiar. It was unsealed, and opening its folds, she hurriedly glanced at the contents. Then, with a wild cry, she started to her feet, and advanced a step toward the stranger, but her limbs refused to do their duty, and she sunk to the floor in a swoon.
Luisa bent over her, shrieking for help, and as she loosened the throat of her mother’s dress she caught the words:
“Felipe—my son—thank God!”
Josefa came rushing in, and unceremoniously hustled the stranger out of the room, and set about restoring her mistress.
“Never fear, ’na Luisa, it is only a fainting fit; there’s no cause of alarm. In a few moments it will be over.”
“Are you sure, Josefa, are you sure?” eagerly queried the sobbing girl. “Ay de mi! She looks like dead!”
“No, no; it’s nothing—nothing at all. Why, bless you, child, she’s had thousands of them!” returned the old nurse, exaggerating a little, the better to reassure Luisa. “See, the color comes to her lips, and, praise the Virgin, her eyes open!”
“Oh, mother, mother, I thought you were dead!”
“Where—where is he—Felipe, my son?” and the lady half raised from the lounge, glancing eagerly around the room, then sinking back, she wailed, “Nuestra Madre de los Merced! it was all a dream, a cruel, bitter dream!”