While standing in the corridor we saw pass the man who had accompanied the bier, with the child in his arms. He was its father, and with a smile on his face was carrying it to its grave. He was followed by two boys playing on violins, and others were laughing around. The child was dressed in white, with a wreath of roses around its head; and as it lay in its father's arms it did not seem dead, but sleeping. The grave was not quite ready, and the boys sat on the heap of dirt thrown out, and played the violin till it was finished. The father then laid the child carefully in its final resting-place, with its head to the rising sun; folded its little hands across its breast, and closed its fingers around a small wooden crucifix; and it seemed, as they thought it was, happy at escaping the troubles of an uncertain world. There were no tears shed; on the contrary, all were cheerful; and though it appeared heartless, it was not because the father did not love his child, but because he and all his friends had been taught to believe, and were firm in the conviction, that, taken away so young, it was transferred immediately to a better world. The father sprinkled a handful of dirt over its face, the grave-digger took his shovel, in a few moments the little grave was filled up, and, preceded by the boy playing on his violin, we all went away together.
The next morning, with great regret, I took leave of my kind friends, and returned to San José. It was my misfortune to be the sport of other men's wives. I lost the best servant I had in Guatimala, because his wife was afraid to trust him with me; and on my return I found 'Hezoos at the convent waiting for me. While putting my things in order, without looking me in the face, he told me of the hardships his wife, "la pobra," had suffered during his absence, and how difficult it was for a married woman to get along without her husband. I saw to what he was tending; and feeling, particularly since the recurrence of my fever and ague, the importance of having a good servant in the long journey I had before me, with the selfishness of a traveller I encouraged his vagabond propensities, by telling him that in a few weeks he would be tired of home, and would not have so good an opportunity of getting away. This seemed so sensible, that he discontinued his hints, and went off contented.
At three o'clock I felt uncertain in regard to my chill, but, determined not to give way, dressed myself, and went to dine with Mr. Steipel. Before sitting down, the blueness of my lips, and a tendency to use superfluous syllables, betrayed me; and my old enemy shook me all the way back to the convent, and into bed. Fever followed, and I lay in bed all next day, receiving many visits at the door, and a
