Margarita flung herself on her knees by the bed, in a passion of weeping. “Oh, but you do know, Señorita, you do know! Forgive me!”
“No, I know nothing,” replied Ramona; “but if you know anything, it is all forgiven. I am not going to die, Margarita. I am going away,” she added, after a second's pause. Her inmost instinct told her that she could trust Margarita now. Alessandro being dead, Margarita would no longer be her enemy, and Margarita could perhaps help her. “I am going away, Margarita, as soon as I feel a little stronger. I am going to a convent; but the Señora does not know. You will not tell?”
“No, Señorita!” whispered Margarita,—thinking in her heart, “Yes, she is going away, but it will be with the angels.”—“No, Señorita, I will not tell. I will do anything you want me to.”
“Thanks, Margarita mia,” replied Ramona. “I thought you would;” and she lay back on her pillow, and closed her eyes, looking so much more like death than like life that Margarita's tears flowed faster than before, and she ran to her mother, sobbing out, “Mother, mother! the Señorita is ill to death. I am sure she is. She has taken to her bed; and she is as white as Señor Felipe was at the worst of the fever.”
“Ay,” said old Marda, who had seen all this for days back; “ay, she has wasted away, this last week, like one in a fever, sure enough; I have seen it. It must be she is starving herself to death.”
“Indeed, she has not eaten for ten days,—hardly since that day;” and Margarita and her mother exchanged looks. It was not necessary to further define the day.
“Juan Can says he thinks he will never be seen here again,” continued Margarita.
“The saints grant it, then,” said Marda, hotly, “if
