existed in the greatest of our saints, and been con-
quered."

"I will not conquer. I-- Oh, padre--for the
love of heaven--"

He left the box hastily and lifted her where she
had fallen and carried her into the room adjoining
the church. He laid her on the floor, and ran for
Dona Ignacia, who, refreshed with wine and
chocolate, came swiftly. But when Concha, under
practical administrations and maternal endearments,
finally opened her eyes, she pushed her mother
coldly aside, rose and steadied herself against the
wall for a moment, then returned to the church,
closing the door behind her.

When a woman has borne thirteen children in the
lost corners of the world, with scarce a thought in
thirty years for aught else save the husband and
his comforts, it is not to be expected that her wits
should be rapiers or her vocabulary distinguished.
But Dona Ignacia's unresting heart had an intelli-
gence of its own, and no inner convulsion could
alter the superb dignity of mien which Nature had
granted her. As she rose and confronted Father
Abella he moved forward with the instinct to kiss
her hand, as he had seen Rezanov do.

"Mi padre," she said, "Concha is the first of my