asustarse: el agua baja!" And as Carmen would have continued to
pray, he rebuked her fears, and bade her try to obtain some rest:

"Basta ya de plegarios, querida!--vete y duerme." His tone,
though kindly, was imperative; and Carmen, accustomed to obey
him, laid herself down by his side, and soon, for very weariness,
slept.

It was a feverish sleep, nevertheless, shattered at brief
intervals by terrible sounds, sounds magnified by her nervous
condition--a sleep visited by dreams that mingled in a strange
way with the impressions of the storm, and more than once made
her heart stop, and start again at its own stopping. One of
these fancies she never could forget--a dream about little
Concha,--Conchita, her firstborn, who now slept far away in the
old churchyard at Barcelona. She had tried to become
resigned,--not to think. But the child would come back night
after night, though the earth lay heavy upon her--night after
night, through long distances of Time and Space. Oh! the fancied
clinging of infant-lips!--the thrilling touch of little ghostly
hands!--those phantom-caresses that torture mothers' hearts! ...
Night after night, through many a month of pain. Then for a time
the gentle presence ceased to haunt her,--seemed to have lain
down to sleep forever under the high bright grass and yellow
flowers. Why did it return, that night of all nights, to kiss
her, to cling to her, to nestle in her arms?

For in her dream she thought herself still kneeling before the
waxen Image, while the terrors of the tempest were ever deepening
about her,--raving of winds and booming of waters and a shaking