“Sister San Sulpicio, remember that it is a sin to laugh at another’s misfortunes,” said the Mother. “Why do you not imitate Sister Maria de la Luz?”
The latter was blushing like a poppy.
“I can’t help it, Mother, I cannot; excuse me,” she replied, endeavouring, but without success, to contain herself.
“Let her laugh; the truth is, the thing is more ludicrous than serious,” said I, affecting good-humour though angry at heart.
These words, instead of inciting the Sister, had the opposite effect, and she quickly grew calm. I looked at her now and then, with a curiosity mingled with annoyance. She returned my look with a frank and smiling eye, in which still lurked a trace of mockery.
“You must change your shoes and stockings as quick as you can; getting the feet wet is very bad,” said the Mother with interest.
“Pshaw! I shall not change them till night. I am accustomed to go all day with my feet soaking,” said I, in a scornful tone of voice, putting on a show of robustness, which, unfortunately, I am very far from being blessed with. But it pleased me to affect bravado before the smiling nun.
“By all means ... go, go home and take off your stocking. We are going to walk across the gallery to see if the water is going down. May the Lord our God bless you!”
I once more made a low bow and kissed the Mother’s crucifix. I did the same with Sister Maria’s, who, of course, blushed again. As to Sister San Sulpicio’s I refrained from touching it. I merely bowed low with a grave face. Thus should she learn not to laugh at people when they get wet.
II. IN SEVILLE.