And then the whole tide of Camila's long despair, her lonely obstinate despair since her girlhood, found its rest on that dusty friendly lap among Sister Juana's fountains and roses.
* * * * * * *
But where are sufficient books to contain the events that would not have been the same without the fall of the bridge? From such a number I choose one more.
"The Condesa d'Abuirre wishes to see you," said a lay-sister at the door of the Abbess's office.
"Well," said the Abbess, laying down her pen, "who is she?"
"She has just come from Spain. I don't know."
"Oh, it is some money, Inez, some money for my house for the blind. Quick, bid her come in."
The tall, rather languorous beauty entered the room. Doña Clara, who was generally so adequate, seemed constrained for once. "Are you busy, dear Mother, may I talk to you for a while?"
"I am quite free, my daughter. You will excuse an old woman's memory; have I known you before?"
"My mother was the Marquesa de Montemayor...." Doña Clara suspected that the Abbess had not admired her mother and would not let the older woman speak until she herself had made a long passionate defense of Doña María. The languor fell away in her self-reproach. At last the Abbess told her of Pepita and Esteban, and of Camila's visit. "All, all of us have failed. One wishes to be punished. One is willing to assume all kinds of penance, but do you know, my daughter, that in love—I scarcely dare say it—but in love our very mistakes don't seem to be able to last long?"