had brought you sooner, but I could keep the little Jesus hid from her only at night. In the day I could not, because the Señora would see. So she did not miss him so much; else she had brought you quicker.”
“But, Majella,” said the logical Alessandro, “it was because I could not leave my father that I did not come. As soon as he was buried, I came.”
“If it had not been for the Virgin, you would never have come at all,” said Ramona, confidently.
For the first hour of this sad journey it seemed as if the child were really rallying; the air, the sunlight, the novel motion, the smiling mother by her side, the big black horses she had already learned to love, all roused her to an animation she had not shown for days. But it was only the last flicker of the expiring flame. The eyes drooped, closed; a strange pallor came over the face. Alessandro saw it first. He was now walking, Ramona riding Benito. “Majella!” he cried, in a tone which told her all.
In a second she was at the baby's side, with a cry which smote the dying child's consciousness. Once more the eyelids lifted; she knew her mother; a swift spasm shook the little frame; a convulsion as of agony swept over the face, then it was at peace. Majella's shrieks were heart-rending. Fiercely she put Alessandro away from her, as he strove to caress her. She stretched her arms up towards the sky. “I have killed her! I have killed her!” she cried. “Oh, let me die!”
Slowly Alessandro turned Baba's head homeward again.
“Oh, give her to me! Let her lie on my breast! I will hold her warm!” gasped Ramona.
Silently Alessandro laid the body in her arms. He had not spoken since his first cry of alarm, If
