lifeless; a handkerchief was tied round his head; near him lay a sickle that had fallen from his nerveless grasp; seated on the ground beside him was a woman, who, with her thin cheek resting on her emaciated hand, was gazing fixedly at him through the tears that rolled down her sad face, as on a rainy day the water trickles down the walls of a deserted ruin. The last rays of the setting sun, lingering in the lane, illumined the melancholy group with a light tender and sorrowful as a farewell glance.
Approaching the stranger, the good woman, whose name was Maria, said to her:
"Señora, what is the matter with your husband?"
"He has a fever that is killing him," answered the stranger, bursting into sobs.
"Holy Mary!" cried the mother of the children compassionately. "And why don't you let people know about it and ask them to help you? Are we living in a heathen land, then?"
"I don't know any one in the place."
"No matter; for a neighborly act, acquaintance is n't necessary. What! Is this poor man to be left alone to die, as if he were among the Moors? Not if I can prevent it."
At this moment a man with a strong, calm, and kind face approached the group.
"Father, father," cried the children, "this
