knew, too late, that she was indeed awake. Then--whirling chaos--A
sudden, blinding crash of lights and sounds--Nothing more!

Esteban Varona sat until a late hour that night over a letter
which required the utmost care in its composition. It was written
upon the thinnest of paper, and when it was finished the writer
inclosed it in an envelope of the same material. Esteban put the
letter in his pocket without addressing it. Then he extinguished
his light, tip-toed to the door connecting his and Rosa's rooms,
and listened. No sound whatever came to his ears, for his sister
slept like a kitten. Reassured, he stole out into the hall. Here
he paused a moment with his ear first to Pancho Cueto's door, and
then to the door of his step-mother's room. He could hear the
overseer's heavy breathing and Isabel's senseless babbling--the
latter was moaning and muttering ceaselessly, but, being
accustomed to her restlessness, Esteban paid no heed.

Letting himself out into the night, he took the path that led to
the old sunken garden. Nocturnal birds were chirruping; his way
was barred with spider-webs, heavy with dew and gleaming in the
moonlight like tiny ropes of jewels; the odor of gardenias was
overpowering. He passed close by the well, and its gaping black
mouth, only half protected by the broken coping, reminded him that
he had promised Rosa to cover it with planks. In its present
condition it was a menace to animals, if not to human beings who
were unaware of its presence. He told himself he would attend to
it on the morrow.

Seating himself on one of the old stone benches, the young man lit
a cigarette and composed himself to wait. He sat there for a long