"Soon I shall have done all. I shall then come for my child and lead her to the dear one."
As the Doña Maria finished speaking, she vanished from my side.
As I heard her close the door of her mother's room, I knew that she would first pray before the shrine of the little Virgin.
For a moment I listened in the silence, almost longing myself to entreat comfort of the image.
I remembered how I had fainted Christmas morning, and how gladly I had regained consciousness in the protecting presence of the little Mother. I knew that the Doña Maria would gain strength and courage before the shrine of her implicit faith, and my own heart hungered for a touch of palpable comfort.
What if the little image was only painted wood? It whispered something to the simple, aching heart that a stern theology could never say.
Alas! I knew that for myself there was nothing but blind hope and fruitless speculation. I could never have knelt before a picture or a shrine, but I envied, none the less, the Spanish woman who found peace and comfort, while I so often suffered in the dark, unsatisfied and rebellious.
When at last I heard quiet steps, I knew that the Doña Maria had arisen from her prayers. I knew that in her sorrowing heart there was a blessed faith, childlike and strong, that would help her to perform, quietly and correctly, the last sad offices for her dead.