The sun had departed for the day, the evening had flushed and died in the cool arms of night.

In the chamber of death there was now the breathless calm which follows when all has been done.

Before the little Virgin, and about the spotless bed, where in purest linen slept the mother of the DoÑa Maria, holy candles had been lighted. Still unmolested stood the small stand covered with a fine drawn linen cover, upon which had rested for weeks the tumblers and bottles needed now no longer.

"See," the DoÑa Maria said tenderly, "see the spoon in the potion I had prepared but a moment before the poor suffering body found peace."

When I offered to remove the medicines, the devoted daughter was not willing.

"Touch not the table yet, kind SeÑora," she pleaded. "Wait until the dear body has been taken away; then will I find courage to disturb the tumblers that the dear hands once held."

As the DoÑa Maria spoke, Mariposilla entered the room, bearing a little cross of white roses. She laid it timidly upon the breast of her grandmother; then, frightened and hysterical, she fled from the bed.

"Poor child," said the DoÑa Maria, "she fears death greatly. She thinks only of the fire that must at first purify the soul, not of the joys of eternity.

"Go now, SeÑora, retire at once for the night. You are weary and in need of rest.

"I care not for company. I will remain alone with my mother and our blessed Lady. I desire to entreat that the sufferings of the dear one may be short.

"Surely the dear Lord will have mercy upon the aged one who has already endured so much upon earth."

"Good DoÑa Maria," I plead, "you will surely be ill if you kneel all night in prayer. To-morrow will be a sad, hard day, and without rest you will be unfit for its strain."

"No, SeÑora," she replied firmly; "I shall not be ill. After midnight I shall sleep; until then I shall pray."

I saw that my persuasions were in vain, and left her alone with her dead.

As I passed through the living-room to reach my own, I was startled by a white-robed figure in front of the Virgin's picture.

The full July moon, streaming through the open door, discovered touchingly the hopeless misery of Mariposilla. She was in her nightgown, gazing piteously into the illuminated face of the unsympathetic doll above the chimney shelf.

As I approached her, she turned sadly from the picture.

In the moonlight, I saw great tears shining in her eyes.

"She loves me not; she is angry and smiles no more," she said, despairingly.

The child's lovely face expressed so perfectly the agony of desertion that I felt powerless to comfort her. Her firm belief in the Virgin's displeasure had torn from her heart its last hope. For weeks she believed that the little mother would have mercy, would intercede for her, and restore in some miraculous way her lover; but to-night the Virgin would not smile. She refused to pity her sorrowful child.

"Dear Mariposilla," I said, remembering the tactics that I sometimes employed with Marjorie; "you must not think because the Virgin refuses to smile that she is angry.

"We ourselves cannot smile. We are sad and awed by the presence of death, and surely it would be heartless for 'our Lady' to smile, when those who love and trust her are in trouble.

"You are nervous and weary. You shall room with me to-night. I have already prepared you a nice bed upon my couch."

I drew her gently in the direction of my room, persuaded that I had quieted for a time her moody fears.

"No! no!" she cried, bursting away from me; "I can not sleep. I will never sleep again."

She rushed, passionately, through the open door into the moonlight. In her bare feet, clad only in her flowing nightgown, she stood like a spirit among the dark vines and lacy shadows of the old veranda.

Her hair fell about her shoulders like a tragic veil, while a sudden agony touched her young, white face.

"You know not what I have suffered," she sobbed. "You think I shall forget, but I never shall. I can not bear that he should not be mine."

"If only he had gone away like my grandmother, I could endure never to see him again. He would then be mine! all mine, and I could go joyfully into a convent and pray always for his soul."

Her voice had grown tearless and sharp.

From the corner of the house a tall, dark form was approaching.

"Come in quickly," I whispered; "Arturo is listening."

She obeyed me now, sinking wearily, as we entered my room, upon the waiting couch.

I was devoutly thankful when I believed her to be sleeping.

She had scarcely stirred for nearly an hour, and I told myself, wearily, that I, too, might perhaps catch a little rest. The day had been a perpetual strain. I was not expecting or intending to sleep soundly, but I felt a merciful relief in lying quietly by the side of Marjorie.

For the night, at least, Mariposilla was safe. I could only hope that the morrow would dawn more tranquilly than the trying day now, at last, over.

After the funeral, I intended to go immediately to Catalina with Marjorie and Mariposilla. I would wait no longer; the heartbroken child must leave San Gabriel at once.

I was arranging my plans most carefully, when I fell asleep from absolute exhaustion.

When I awoke, the moon was no longer casting fantastic shadows. My white walls were no longer softened by elfin touches.

The shadow vines and pepper branches had disappeared in the honest light of the July sun.

The morning was yet deliciously cool, but the day was fairly begun, even now brimful of sweet odors and bird-music.

The mockers, who had sung all night, were not yet weary, but less belligerent. At night they sometimes quarreled, but in the morning their little disagreements were adjusted.

As I delayed to open my eyes, half awake, but unwilling to shock too soon the last lingering desire to doze, I seemed to hear a familiar rebuke from the great pepper tree beyond my window.

"SeÑora! SeÑora! SeÑora!" called an old mocker. "Get up! get up! get up!" screamed his neighbor from the next limb.

I fancied now as I listened, that the birds had tried to awaken me in the night. Vaguely returned an ugly dream, with the ceaseless call of the persistent birds.

In a moment I remembered all. The dead grandmother, Mariposilla, the midnight cry of the mockers—"SeÑora! SeÑora! SeÑora!"

Mariposilla?

Where was she? When had she slipped away? Did the birds alone know?

The couch was empty. Each pillow bore the mark of the child's weary head.

In the night, while I slept, my restless captive had fled.

I sprang across the hall to her room; it was empty, and the bed undisturbed. Trembling I entered the death chamber. The DoÑa Maria was alone; her child was not with her.

The good woman was again before the shrine of the Virgin, repeating a last prayer for her dead, preparatory to the painful duties of the morning.

The front window shades were closely drawn to exclude the morning sun, but looking north, to the great, quiet mountains, an open window invited the cool breath of the day.

Without understanding my motives, I took a hasty survey of the silent room. To all appearances everything was as usual.

A sheet had been drawn over the face of the dead, and the holy candles were burning low and pale.

Mariposilla's little cross of white roses was still fresh where the child had placed it, the table of medicines undisturbed except the tumbler containing the unused opiate.

Horrible discovery!

The poisonous glass was gone, and the dark, innocent-looking bottle that remained was empty.

How could I grasp the frightful suspicion? How believe that the Virgin had forgotten her child? How bear the burden of my own selfish slumbers?

Why in the night had I not understood the mocking-birds when they called in vain, "SeÑora! SeÑora! SeÑora?"

* * * * *

A few moments later Arturo bore in his arms from the arbor the lifeless body of Mariposilla.

From her beautiful face the color had faded forever.

We laid her upon her own bed, still robed in the little nightgown, for the long sleep that had closed at last the wakeful eyes.

Poor foolish, beautiful little Butterfly, her summer was now forever ended.

As I performed for the dead girl the last few loving labors, I acquitted her in my inmost heart of her terrible crime. She had meant only to rest, to forget for a time in sleep the anguish of her cruel disappointment.

When from between the great century plants, the yellow edges of their spears shining like avenging swords, passed the hearses—the black one bearing the aged Spanish woman, the white one bearing Mariposilla—I remembered the tragic blooming of the Gold of Ophir rose.

I saw again the old veranda illuminated with Easter glory. I saw timid buds open to full roses. Scintillating in the spring sunshine, more lustrous than all, I saw a child-bud burst into a maiden flower. I saw its petals deepen with the kisses of the sun; then I saw them pale and fall to the ground; for the sun had hidden his face.

I saw the great-hearted DoÑa Maria bending wearily, as she attempted to gather the scattered petals. I saw the dark Arturo kneel beside her.

Together they seemed to pray; but in the heart of the man was born a horrible curse for those two, now far away.

In my misery I saw the Demon of Selfishness, blacker than night, blacker than death.

I tried to pray—but I could only weep.

THE END.