was alone. Just before breathing his last, my uncle had expressed the
desire to leave his daughter in the care of our father whom he had never
known, but of whom he had heard nothing but good. Beside all this he had
left his daughter in the hands of God, the loving Father of all orphans,
praying Him to guide and direct in the whole affair. His last prayer had
been for us; asking God to bless our family that we might all be guided
into the straight and narrow Way that leadeth unto life eternal. Then
followed certain details relative to a small inheritance that Paula
possessed, and the prayer of the Pastor himself that the temporal and
spiritual happiness of the little orphan might be maintained.

"Is that all?" asked Catalina.

"Yes," said Rosa; "that is the end of the letter."

"Poor little thing!"

There was a long silence. I think Catalina was thinking of her mother, for
her face had softened for once.

Teresa sat with her large agile fingers flying--those strong fingers that
were never idle;--the metallic sound of her needles alternating with the
happy song of the canaries, from whose cages the curtains had again been
removed.

Never in my life had I lingered very long to observe Catalina, but this
afternoon I could not help but notice how pale and delicate she really was.
Propped up on her pillows with her golden hair falling around her
shoulders, one would not have guessed her to be more than fourteen years
old, instead of eighteen. Seeing her thus after her day of sufferings, I