III.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIII, Issue 23, 8 June 1905, Page 23

111.

On this beautiful morning in June nature was radiant with the new life which spring had bestowed upon her; she had smilingly arrayed herself in c, garment of green and decorated herself with flowers. The vegetation had lost none of its early freshness. The almost tropical heat which in later summer devastates the soil of southern Spain had not as yet shrivelled the leaves of the cactus, whose rich red flower hung heavily on its branches, or parched the earth till it would be but a thirsty fire-dried plain. The sun was gilaing with his bright beams the sombre branches of the cypresses which grew so abundantly in %he modest cemetery of the village of , a sequestered spot far from the turmoil of cities, and within whose radius the railroad has not penetrated, bringing with it so-called ' improvement.' The little ' God's acre ' was deserted on this early morning, save for two pathetic figures—those of a widow and her child—and the former was pouring out her soul in passionate mourning and lamentation. It was not without reason that Madame de Ravannes was sad, that tears were flowing from her eyes, and that her heart rejoiced not in the gladsomeness of the morning. The day upon which we discover her w<as the anniversary of her husband's death and the occasion of her yearly visit to the grave of 'him who had been remorselessly torn from her side by the hand of an assassin. Four years ago, on a June morning as the one we have described, Monsieur de Ravannes, a man noted for his excellent qualities, loved and admired by all who knew him, had been found dead under a tree in the park surrounding his country house—mysteriously and cruelly murdered. The disconsolate wife remembered so well the day on which the discovery had been made, the terrible shock of which had made an impression so deep and so lasting as to threaten at one time to destroy her reason. Then the bringing home of the disfigured body, the exciting proceedings of the police and the detectives — the tracing agd arrest of the murderer, who proved to be one Pedro Rogues, a dismissed gamekeeper. Then the long suspense o& the trial—the verdict which doomed the criminal to the utmost penalty of the law, and finally the execution Ah ! the execution ! What a terrible memory was that ! At sunrise on an April morning, when the olive trees wero putting on their grayish-green leaves, and the breezes were laden with the odor of millions of orange blossoms from the surrounding gardens, Madame de Revannes had seen the murdeier expiate with his life the trrrible crime which he had committed. With pale face, clenched teeth, contracted brow, a revengeful smile on her lips, she had watched the erection of the scaffold from a window of a house in the grand ' pla/a ' of the coh.inty town. When the signal was given that Pedro Roaues was no more, Madame de Revannes had exulted in the thought that justice had been done She could rest happy in the assurance that her husband's death was avenged. Then she remembered the sad departure from the charming country house, which she had entered first as a bride. Formerly it was filled with memories of early wedded bliss The beautiful mansion was now so sadly peopled by ghosts of tne past that it became impossible for her to reside within its walls. It was only with considerable difficulty that she could persuade herself occasionally to return to the village in order to visit hor husband's tomb and to co\er it with floral wreaths and tributes As Madame de Revannes, still young and beautiful, her -swett face crowned by its aureole of fair hair in which were, already many threads of silver, knelt at tli-e tomb of her husband, she suffered all the pafn of her bereavement over again. With her head pressed against the unresponsive marble, her hands tightly claspecl, sobs agitating her slight frame, the widow's vivid imagination enabled her to live through all the circumstances the mnrder once more and even to exaggerate its horror as she made her lonely vigil at the tomb.

By the side of Madame de Revannes there knelt h^r little girl, a charming child of eight years, the ethereal

, —^ beauty of whose large bliue eyes and fair complexion was enhanced by the whiteness of her dress, ornamented with its black ribbons. Teresita (little Teresa) had cried bitterly when she helped her mother to arrange the wreaths and crosses on . the tomb and when she saw her fall upon her knees in an agony of weeping. Afterwards the child knelt down at her mother's side, and clasping her hands devoutly, she repeated all the prayers which she cooild say by heart. After a time, however, her attention began to wander. She listened to the song of the lark which soared upward ; she watched the shadows of the trees as they fell on the grass and on the tombstones ; she heard the croak of tiie frogs which welcomed tihe morning in some distant pond, and the tingle of the bells worn by the mules as those patient animals passed in the roadway. A rustling in the branches of the shrubs near the wall of the cemetery next attracted Teresita's notice, and looking in the direction whence the noise proceeded, she descried a child, apparently as the same age as herself. Sue was standing among the clumps of grass where paupers and outcasts are buried, and was crying silently as she regarded one of the graves. Its only ornament among the weeds and briars which covered it was a wooden cross painted in some sombre color. The child was miserably clad ; her feet were bare, her frock was torn and hung loosely on her thin frame. Teresita looked at her mother inquiringly, and on seeing her immovable, still occupied with her bitter thoughts, the little girl rose very quickly and crossed over the gravelled pathway to where the poor child stood. The mourner at the grave turned her head suddenly as if frightened, ami for some moments, the two girls regarded each other-without sneaking. At last Teresita broke the silence, asking in a low, timid "v oice : ' What is the matter with you ? Why are you crying "' ' The rhil-i stared fixedly, her large dark eyes riveted on the fairy-like form before her. ' Are you in trouble ? ' asked Tcrosita. The poor child answered by a nod of the head, and nervously twisting the corner of her pinafore in her fingers, she added : ' I <-honld like so much to halve some flowers to put on my father's grave ; he is lying there dead and I have n;>no to gi\ c him.' TercsiU's blue ey>es filled with tears. After a little thought, she scorned to have formed some resolution, for tinning round, she crossed over hastily to where her not her still knelt Arrived at tier side, she seized a large wTeath of flowers tied with white ribbon, ami a beautiful spray of roses from the place on her father's tomb where her mother had placed them. Returning to the child, she offered them to her with a smilo, the faint, reflection of the interior ioy which she felt in accomplishing her kind and charitable action. 1 Tale them, little eirl ' Bui as the child still stared at Teresita wonderinglv. quite unable to believe in her good fortune, she herself laid the flowers on the gra\e at the foot of the humble cross

At tho moment in which Teresita decorated the gra\e of the outcast with the flowers, Madame de Renames awoke from her mournful re\erie, and missing her daughter from her side, looked round anxiously. On disco\cring her at some little distance away and in the company of another child, she rose from her kneeling posture and proceeded to join her. On seeing her mother approach, and noticing that she looked inquiringly at the grave, Teresita, uncertain as to how she might regard her appropriation of the flowers, said rather anxiously : ' Oh, rlease don't scold me, mother, dear ; T took iho flowers from papa's grave to give them to this poor little girl': she was crying because she had no flowers to ghd her father, who is dead. We had so rrnany, and lam sure my papa would be pleased that she should ha\e tliem.' Madame fie Rev annes made no answer, but mechanically she raised and looked at the inscription on the wooden cross. On reading the name she uttered a cry of horror, and seizing the arm of Teresita drew her quickly bacli from the grave, In that moment the song of the lark seemed to cease : the sun no longer shone ; a darkness surrounded the Tioor woman, and amidst it hor eyes saw nothing but those hideous letters outlined as if in fire ! Tho name on the cross was that of Pedro Rogues, the destroyer of her life's happiness, her husband's murderer !