“My father came?” and Basilio instinctively examined his mother’s face and hands.
The question pained the mother; she sighed.
“You won’t eat? Then we must go to bed; it is late.”
Sisa barred the door and covered the fire. Basilio murmured his prayers, and crept on the mat near his mother, who was still on her knees. She was warm, he was cold. He thought of his little brother, who had hoped to sleep this night close to his mother’s side, trembling with fear in some dark corner of the convent. He heard his cries as he had heard them in the tower; but Nature soon confused his ideas and he slept.
In the middle of the night Sisa wakened him.
“What is it, Basilio? Why are you crying?”
“I was dreaming. O mama! it was a dream, wasn’t it? Say it was nothing but a dream!”
“What were you dreaming?”
He did not answer, but sat up to dry his tears.
“Tell me the dream,” said Sisa, when he had lain down again. “I cannot sleep.”