"No, no," said my father; "we hope that ..."

"No, father, I'm dying. I know that well. It is useless to keep it from me.
Think of it, only eighteen years old, and yet I've been of no use to
anybody, and nobody's going to miss me very much."

"Catalina," exclaimed my father, "do not speak so. You hurt me talking that
way, and you make Lisita and Paula cry."

"Are you really crying, Lisita?" And Catalina turned her feverish eyes
toward me. "How strange! I have not been a very good sister to you, and I
always thought you didn't care for me."

"Oh, Catalina," I exclaimed, kneeling beside the bed, "please don't die. I
do love you so. I promise to come and care for you every day and I'll never
make another noise while you are sick. I will be always good to you,
indeed--even when you're bad-humored. Please don't die." And then I sobbed
with such violence that my father, fearing that such conduct would cut even
shorter that parting life upon the bed, asked Teresa to take me away.

But Catalina said, "Let her alone, father. It really does me good to see
her cry. I never dreamed that Lisita had any heart at all. But I see now
that it has been all my fault. If I had only been a bit better-tempered
with her, she would have shown me a little more affection. Rosa, give me a
little water, please." And Rosa placed a teaspoonful of water between the
lips of our poor sister.

"Are you quite bad, my daughter?" asked my father.