It was, perhaps, the longest speech she had ever made to him, and it was all about himself too, and full of consideration for him—oh! it was delicious. With fervent gratitude he kissed her hand, called her Preciosa, Banita, till she declared that he should not say hard things of her in Spanish any more. He desisted for the time, on her promise that she would try to be cheerful while he was away, and not get homesick, unless it were for him; and they became quite gay and sociable over a cup of tea which Sister Anna brought them into the sitting-room—so sociable, that Nora said of the Don, after his departure:
"If any one were to tell me that a church-steeple could unbend sufficiently to roll ten-pins of a Sunday afternoon, I should believe it after this."
But in a little while the fits of dejection and the fits of crying came back again. Sister Anna did her best to break them up; she rallied her on breaking her heart for the absent Don; she tried to interest her in her surroundings, so that she should see the sungleams that flashed through the winter's gloom.
"See this beautiful cala that has just opened in the garden," she would say, with an abortive attempt at making her believe that her ankle was strong and well.
"I cannot get up, miserable creature that I am," came back the dismal response.
"Oh, that lovely cloth-of-gold has grown a shoot full half a yard long since yesterday; come and see."
"I cannot."
"Yes, you can; come lean on me. Now, isn't this sunshine delightful for December?"
Nora drew a deep breath; after a week's steady rain, the sky was clear as crystal, and the sun laughed down on hill and valley, blossoming rose and budding bush.