When Louis returned at the end of the week, he was surprised to find Paula so happy and contented. He found her in the kitchen helping Teresa to dry the dishes. "One would think," said he, "that you had been with us for many months instead of a few days." Paula showed herself to be much more embarrassed in his presence than she had been with us. It may have been the school uniform that did it. But Louis, like the good-hearted lad that he was, did what he could to make her feel at home. Presently, out we went into the garden to play, not without an anxious look from Teresa, for she knew that when Louis came into any situation, he generally caused trouble. When, however, we returned with our aprons decorated with mud but still happy, the good old lady heaved a sigh of relief. The fact is, that when Louis played with us he always acted as he did with the boys at school. But no matter what happened, Paula seemed afraid of nothing. When it came to running races, Louis found to his great chagrin, that she could even beat him at this; and in the other games if she happened to fall and hurt herself, she'd rub an injured knee with a laugh or sucked a stubbed finger without further comment, and go on playing as if nothing had happened. But in spite of entering wholeheartedly into all our fun, it was easy to see that our servant had well named her, "The daughter of the good God!" She was always ready to step aside and let others take the first place, and to yield all her own rights, to recover a ball at whatever distance when a dispute arose as to, "Who should get it?" or to look for a lost kite, no matter how thick the brambles might be. No wonder Louis was quite content to have such an accommodating companion!
Then the moment arrived when we must go back to the house. That fatal time always seemed to arrive on the wings of the wind. Teresa seldom had any time to come and call us, but she relied on Louis, as he had a watch. Beside all that, we could clearly hear the hour strike in the great clock on Darnetal Church.
"Listen," cried Paula, woefully, "it's nine o'clock, and Teresa said we must go back to the house at nine."
"Oh, shut up," said Louis. (He had just started a thrilling new game of jumping from a high wall.) "I'll tell you when it's time to go home. Now are you ready? Hurry up, Paula, get the ladder. There it is, under the cherry-tree!" Paula obediently ran and returned with the required ladder, and helped Louis put it in position, saying at the same time, "But Louis, you know well that Teresa told us that we must be in at nine o'clock."
"Oh, yes, I heard it," said Louis ill-humoredly.
"Well, then we must go!"
"Oh, not yet, five minutes more or less won't make any difference."
"No, five minutes won't make any great difference, of course," said Paula slowly, "and it certainly is lovely here, but Teresa ordered us in at nine o'clock. I'll run and ask her if we cannot stay another fifteen minutes."
"Certainly not," sneered Louis. "Teresa would never give permission. Now, hurry up, you're first on the wall, Paula."
"No, I'm not going to stay. Teresa will be angry."
"No, no, never fear. Besides, she'll never know. I think she's out."
"Well, she'll know when she returns. She'll ask us what time we came in."
"Oh, you needn't worry about that," and Louis took out his watch. "I can fix that matter easily." We both looked over his shoulder at the watch, which by this time clearly pointed to five minutes after the hour. Suddenly, we saw the hands of the watch begin to turn backwards. "Now," said Louis, "what time it is?"
"Half-past eight," answered Paula, lifting astonished eyes to her cousin's face.
"Well, if it's half-past eight why do you look at me like that?"
"Because I don't understand."
"What do you mean by saying you don't understand? It's all quite simple. If Teresa is angry, I'll tell her that we left the garden at nine o'clock; then I'll show her my watch."
"But," cried Paula, quite upset, "that would be a lie!"
"Nonsense, you foolish youngster, that's not a lie. We'll go from here at the dot of nine, according to my watch, and that's what I'll tell Teresa in case she asks us. Of course, if she doesn't ask us, we don't have to say anything. Besides, I do it for you and Lisita, for if you were boys instead of girls, there would be no reason to return so early. Now, up with you. Yes, or no."
"Not I," said Paula, with a heightened color. Louis was furious.
"No, you say? Oh," he laughed, "the wall's too high." Paula looked at the wall. It was certainly high, but he knew very well from past exploits that the height would not bother her.
"No," she said, "I'm not afraid to jump. Over in Villar, when I had to tend the goats, many a time I have had to jump from far greater heights than that to keep them from straying into our neighbor's pastures; but I tell you now, we promised Teresa to return at nine o'clock, and I'm not going to disobey her."
Then it was that I joined in on the side of Louis. "If you're always going to obey Teresa, you'll never have a quiet moment."
"Then are you, too, going to stay with Louis?" Paula asked sadly.
"Of course," cried Louis, without giving me time to reply. "And now, go if you wish and leave us in peace. Get out of the way!"
Paula, who was seated on the lowest rung of the ladder, immediately stepped aside and soon Louis was on the wall.
"Now, it's your turn," he called to me. I followed my brother as Paula slowly moved away up the garden walk.
"I'm going back with Paula," I said to Louis. Then from the top of the wall, I saw her turn her head for one last look.
"Oh, let her go!" said Louis. "She can find her own way. I'm afraid the little fool is going to become impossible. Now, do as I do. But be sure and don't break your nose, for Teresa will blame me."
"You jump first," I said.
"Getting afraid, are you? All right, see me jump. One, two, three!" and down he went, in the middle of a pansy-bed, Teresa's especial pride and the object of her particular care.
"Oh, oh," I cried, viewing the ruin that Louis had made. "Now, won't Teresa be angry indeed!"
"Well, why should I care?" said Louis. "Why did she have to put flowers alongside of a perfectly good wall like this? Now, hurry up and jump. We'll fix it up and water it, and she'll know nothing about what happened."
"Oh, Louis, I'm afraid!"—Certainly the distance to the ground seemed enormous!
"What are you afraid of? I'll catch you if you fall. Don't be a 'fraidcat!'" Just at that moment I would have done anything rather than jump.
"I'm coming down by the ladder."
"No, you'll do no such thing! Now, come on; don't be a coward!"
Just at this moment we heard a voice calling, "Louis! Lisita!"
Louis turned to see Paula calling us from the bottom of the garden.
"And now what do you want?" cried Louis. "I thought you had gone home."
I profited by this diversion to come rapidly down the ladder.
"I was almost at the house," answered Paula, coming nearer, "but I didn't go in because I didn't want to meet Teresa."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn't know what to say to her, if she should ask me where you two were."
"Well, wouldn't you have told her the truth?"
"Of course, I would have had to tell her. That's why I've come back to look for you. I've run all the way. Oh, please, come now; won't you?"
My brother seemed to hesitate.
"You know I hated to disobey," added Paula, with tears in her eyes, "and at the same time, I don't like to be a 'tattle-tale.' Won't you please come home now with me?"
Louis was a good-hearted lad in spite of his shortcomings. Therefore, seeing his young cousin beginning to cry, he said, "All right, let's go. Anyway, I can't play the way I want, especially with a pair of youngsters like you two. But, look here, Paula, you forgot the ladder. Take it away now, if you want us to play up to all your nonsense."
Paula, grabbing the ladder, simply said, "Oh, thank you so much," as she dried her tears. I went meanwhile and filled the watering-pot while Louis tried to restore the crushed pansies as best he could.
"There you are," said Louis finally, "Teresa will never know." And off we all three raced for the house.
"And so you are back already," remarked Teresa as we invaded the kitchen.
"Back already!" said Louis. "It's more than a quarter after nine, but if it hadn't been for the country cousin here, we'd have been a whole lot later."
My father had not had much time to pay attention to Paula since her arrival; for on his return from his long trip he had found the head of the factory very sick. This had so increased his duties that he hardly had time in the morning to take a hurried cup of coffee, before going off to his work. In the evening, he always went to see Catalina for a few moments, and then he shut himself in his room where he worked far into the night.
It was, therefore, with a sigh of relief that he sat down at the family table on Sunday morning to take breakfast with us children.
"Now, then, Paula," he said, turning to our cousin as Teresa served us coffee, "you haven't told me how you like your new family?"
Paula colored a little as she said, "Oh, I love you all very much, uncle mine."
"Well, that's a happy reply," said my father, "and we love you also, my little daughter."
The coffee had been served. Paula had been with us four days and she knew that we never asked the blessing; but she never dreamed that anyone would hinder her from following her own custom which she still continued at every meal. Without any hesitation therefore, she repeated in front of my father, the words that had surprised us so at our very first meal. "The food which we receive, O Lord, may it be blessed in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."
"What's that you say?" said my father, hardly giving her time to conclude.
Paula, still on her feet, with her hands still joined for the prayer, fixed her great luminous eyes on my father.
She was not smiling now, and I saw that she understood that somehow she must have displeased him.
"Answer me," demanded my father. "What were you doing?"
"But …"
"Repeat those words of your prayer."
Paula quietly obeyed.
"Where did you learn that?"
"My father taught it to me. We always prayed before and after eating."Paula said this with a trembling voice, trying to restrain her tears.
"Listen to me, Paula," my father said in a voice much less severe; "I don't wish you to imagine that I'm angry with you. In fact, I'm glad that you want to remember your father and his words. That is all very well. But I simply wish you to understand that in the future you are to conduct yourself like the other members of my family. Do you understand, my little daughter?"
"No, uncle, I don't."
"No? Well, then, I must speak more plainly. Your cousins no doubt have already told you that in this house I will permit no word relative to religion. In the future that applies to you also."
"But, uncle dear!"
"That will do. When you come to more mature years you will be able to understand my reasons, and if you should desire it at that time I will give them to you. At present it is enough for you to know that you are not to pray anymore. Hand me the morning paper, Rosa."
We ate in silence, all except Paula who apparently couldn't swallow a mouthful. Our father with his eyes buried in the paper, paid no more attention to her. I had a great desire to cry without knowing why, for I couldn't possibly understand why my father's warning should make Paula so unhappy. Father had not punished her, yet, nevertheless, to see her stand there with a mixture of grief and fright on her pale face, one would have thought that she had been threatened with a most terrible misfortune.
Rosa and Louis made understanding signs to one another. Meanwhile to demonstrate my own sympathy, I tried to take my poor cousin's hand, but she withdrew it, and I understood that it was useless to try to comfort her.
"Uncle," she cried suddenly, "oh, uncle mine, please pardon me but I cannot, cannot obey you."
"What's this?" said my father, gazing at her with stupefaction and growing anger. Our surprise at this untoward daring of our young country cousin was so great, that even Louis dropped his spoon and forgot to eat.
We had disobeyed very often, especially Louis and I, and many times we had been punished for it, for disobedience in my father's eyes was the greatest of all crimes; but never had we dared to defy him openly.
"Paula, be quiet," cried Rosa, fearing the terrible consequences of such temerity.
To our great surprise, my father, in spite of his anger, remained calm.
"So you don't wish to obey me," he said, fixing Paula with a cold and severe eye. "That's the first time I've ever heard such words from any child in this house. Tell me, my daughter, what do you mean?"
"Oh, dear uncle," she said, drawing quite close to father, "oh, oh, uncle mine, don't be angry, please. I do wish to obey you in everything. Oh, yes, in everything, everything! I promised my father to be good and to show to everyone that I am a daughter of the Lord Jesus. But, oh, uncle, I must pray, and I must serve the Lord. My father told me so, and God Himself tells me so, for so it is written down in the Bible itself."
"I think," said my father, "you will find written in your Bible, these words, 'Children, obey your parents.' And according to you, you ought to obey the Bible."
"Yes, I know that well, those words truly are in the Bible, but papa told me that I should always obey God, cost what it may. Oh, dear uncle, surely you wish to serve Him. The Lord died for us, and for this, of course, we love Him. And I thought that you loved Him too. I never knew that there were people in this world who did not love God. Oh, please let me pray, dear uncle. I beg of you, I beg of you. Papa, my dear papa, oh, if he should know that I could never pray anymore! I promised him I'd see him in heaven one day, and he'll be waiting for us there, waiting there for all of us, you, and Lisita, and Rosa, and Catalina, and everybody. Oh, please, please let me pray!" And Paula put her head on my father's shoulder and sobbed as if her heart would break.
"Oh, let her pray, father," implored Rosa in a low voice. "She is so young, she'll soon forget." We could all see that there was a great struggle in my father's innermost self, as a tender look came in his eye, as if he would say, "Don't cry any more. There, there! Pray if you wish." But suddenly his eye rested on us and the stern look returned. He had forgotten us. If he gave way to Paula now, how about the discipline of the rest of his family? Besides, if he permitted her to pray, what would hinder us also from invoking that same holy Name? It was too much.
"Listen, I tell you," he said; "you must obey, and obey at once. This thing has gone too far already." The only reply that came was the sound of Paula's crying. "There, there," said my father, "Stop your crying. I know your religion perfectly, and once I was on the point of practising it, but, as I said before, your religion teaches obedience to those who are over you."
Paula raised her head, and amid her tears she said, "Listen, uncle dear, I'm only a little girl, and I don't know much, and I can't explain to you what I wish to say. I know well that it is my duty to obey you, and so my father instructed me before he died, and when I disobeyed him, he punished me, but in my father's case—" and here she hesitated.
"Go on, go on," said my father.
"My father's will was also God's will. He used to say that he was my earthly father but that God was my heavenly Father, and that if he should die, God was to be my Father forever. And no matter what happened, or where I was, I must continue to serve God, no matter who endeavored to stop me. For it is written in God's Word, 'We should obey God, rather than men.'"
I saw my father go pale with anger. "You're an insolent girl!" he cried. "And I have a good mind to give you a good whipping, to teach you to respect your elders."
Paula looked at him with surprise. "I don't understand, uncle. Those words are written in the New Testament."
"Show them to me," ordered my father.
Paula, glad to escape for a moment, ran for her Bible, which was always beside her in our little bedroom. As she crossed the threshold, Teresa entered to carry away the dishes. "What now? What's the matter?" said the old servant as she looked at Paula's tearful face. "What on earth have you been crying about, poor child?"
My father answered for her. "She's been guilty of most incredible impertinence."
"That's strange," said the old servant. "That's not a bit like her, with her happy, humble ways with all of us."
"That may be," said my father, "but it's just as I feared. She's got all the ideas of her father's family. She talks of nothing but God and the Bible and of her religion, and that's insupportable in this house."
"Oh, do go slow, sir," Teresa implored. "She's a mere child yet."
"Yes, but she must obey."
Teresa contented herself with a shrug of her shoulders, for she saw that my father was not going to yield. And now Paula had returned with her Bible in hand.
"And now," said my father, after a moment of silence, "let us see those words. Have you found them yet?"
Paula had paused, her hand turning over the pages of her Bible rapidly."No, uncle, not yet, but I will find them soon."
Again there was silence. Teresa had returned to the kitchen, the door closing with a bang to demonstrate her displeasure. Nothing could be heard but the tick-tack of the clock, and the sound of the turning pages, as Paula, in spite of her tears, looked for the desired words.
"Here it is," she said at last, smiling in spite of her emotion. "See, uncle, here you are, at the fifth chapter of Acts, verse 29."
"'We ought to obey God, rather than men!'" murmured my father two or three times, as he read the words of Holy Writ, while Paula looked at him with confident eyes, even though a few tears still lingered.
"Let us see, now, something of the context," he added. "Oh, yes, here it is," and he commenced to read aloud,
"'And the high priest asked them saying, Did not we straitly command you that ye should not teach in this name? and, behold, ye have filled Jerusalem with your doctrine, and intend to bring this man's blood upon us. Then Peter and the other apostles answered and said,We ought to obey God rather than men.'"
Teresa, who had forgotten the tablecloth, came to get it, and smiled as she saw that happiness had again returned to Paula's countenance; for nothing pleased the good woman more than to find everybody in the house happy.
My father leaving certain directions relative to Catalina whom he had found very weak that morning, gathered up his papers, also the Bible, and started to go out.
"Uncle," Paula reminded him timidly, "you've made a mistake. You are carrying my Bible away with your papers."
"Yes, that is true, but I've made no mistake. I'm keeping your Bible now."
"And you will return it to me tonight, uncle?"
"And why tonight?"
"To read it, uncle, as I always do, every night."
"Well, you're not going to read it any more! My children do not read the Bible and they're not so bad. And I've already told you that from now on, you're going to live the same as all the other members of my family, of which you now form a part!"
"Oh, uncle, uncle!" implored Paula, "please leave me that Bible! It is the Bible my father gave me on his dying bed! Please let me have it, I pray you, my dear uncle! I will be good, and I will give you everything that I brought here from Villar. But leave me my Bible, please! please! Leave me my Bible!" Paula sobbed, clinging to my father with a desperate courage.
Teresa, who had viewed this scene with dismay, did not dare to interfere.She came and went, pretending to arrange things here and there in the room.
For my part, I could not comprehend Paula's conduct, not being able to imagine why she should dare so much for her little old black book—I, who would have exchanged all my books for a new doll; but I would have suffered anything to help her now. And so in spite of all Teresa's signs for me to keep quiet and sit down, I took my father by the sleeve and burst into tears saying, "Papa, please give it to her."
My father turned and looked at me for an instant. Never had I seen him so angry. His face had become as white as a sheet. Suddenly throwing Paula off, who had been holding on to him on the other side, he raised the Bible over her head and with a thundering voice, he threatened her. "Will you keep quiet?" Paula appeared not to have heard him.
"Oh, dear uncle," she implored once more, extending her hands to secure her treasured book, "oh, uncle." In reply all I heard was a dull thud, and I saw Paula fall to the ground. Beside himself, my father had given her a tremendous blow on the head with the Bible.
Teresa rushed toward the child and carried her into the kitchen, turning as she did so toward my father "Have a care, sir," she cried, her voice trembling with indignation. "Mark my words, you will repent some day of what you have just done."
It appeared to me that my father had already repented. He took his hat without a word and went out, and did not return until the evening.
* * * * *
"What a shame that Paula isn't a boy," said Louis, as soon as our father had disappeared.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because she is so brave. Did you notice she stopped crying as soon as father hit her? In her place, you would have been crying yet."
"And you? How about yourself?"
"Oh, boys wouldn't cry for a little thing like that. I'm surprised, though, that father hit her."
"I'm surprised too," said Rosa, "but, of course, she must learn to obey."
"I wonder what can be in this Bible of hers to make her love it so," continued Louis. "Any way, what is a Bible? Is it a kind of a prayer-book?"
"No," I said, proud that I knew so much, "it's not a prayer-book. At least I have seen Paula pray in the morning and at night. She kneels and closes her eyes and prays, and does not use the Book at all during the time that she prays. She tells me that in the Book she learns how to be good and to serve God. Her father used to read it to her every day, and when he died she promised him to continue to read it."
"Poor Paula!" sighed Rosa. "There is something mighty fine about her. I wonder how all this is going to come out."
"I think she'll die," I said, trying hard to keep back the tears.
"Nonsense," said Louis, "she'll not die! Not she! Don't worry about that.In a few days she'll forget all about it. But I can't help feeling verysorry to see her so unhappy. Well, good-bye, Rosa. Don't cry anymore,Lisita. I'm going into the kitchen to see what's happened to poor Paula."
I followed him out and we found the kitchen empty. I went to our room and found Teresa seated on my bed with Paula on her lap. I heard Teresa say, "My treasure, don't cry any more! Don't afflict poor Teresa who loves you so, and who loved your mother before you. Now, come, come, my angel, that will do. You will make yourself sick. See, here comes Lisita also to comfort you."
But Paula continued crying, inconsolable, as she hid her face on the ample shoulder of our old servant I came quite near her and stroked her hair, but I could not utter a word.
"Papa! papa," she called, time after time.
"Your father's in heaven," answered Teresa, taking her tenderly in her arms. "What would he think if he saw his little girl in such a state?"
"Oh, I only wish father had taken me with him! If I could only see him now! You see, I promised him to read my Bible and now I cannot, for my uncle has carried away the only one I had—that wonderful Book that told me of God, and where my father had marked so many beautiful passages! Oh, papa, papa, do come! Your daughter needs you now!"
Teresa, finally seeing that it was useless to try to comfort her, limited herself to drying the floods of tears that still continued to flow. But finally, thoroughly exhausted, Paula at last became calm and listened tranquilly to Teresa's long story which we already knew so well, regarding the death of our mother and Catalina's terrible fall. And following this, she showed her that on account of these great misfortunes, instead of leading our father to seek the Lord, it seemed on the contrary to have hardened his heart. Thus he had become rebellious, and had made it an established rule in our home that not a word should be uttered relative to the Supreme Being. Then she added, "But don't you believe that he does not care for you! If you could know how many times he has said that you should lack nothing and should be treated as one of his own daughters."
"That is certainly true," said Rosa, who had entered during Teresa's narrative. "Father appears severe, and this morning, of course, he became very angry, but he is very good-hearted after all."
"I did not know, I did not know," said Paula, as she bowed her head; "how my poor uncle must have suffered!"
"Besides," continued Teresa, "who can tell but what your uncle will begin to read your little—what is it you call it?—the Bible?"
"Do you think so? Oh, Teresa! Do you think he will read it himself?"
"Certainly I do, and why not? And when he has read it and found that it is a good book, I'm sure he will return it to you. So now, just calm yourself and don't worry any more."
"But," questioned Paula, "do you mean to tell me that my uncle hasn't got aBible himself?"
"Yes, he had one once, but I imagine that he must have lost it, for it's many years since I have seen the one that he had."
"Oh," exclaimed Paula, "what a wonderful thing if my uncle should read my Bible. For I am sure that he will come to believe in God as my father did, and then he will let me have my precious Book back again. My father, too, passed through great affliction. My mother also died, and then my two sisters, all three in the same year. Father told me that by thus passing through the fire he had learned not to fix his eyes on the things of this world, but to find his happiness in God. I don't know how to explain it very well, of course; but I did understand it fairly well when my father told me and showed me some of the precious passages in the Book that helped me to understand."
"I think I also understand," murmured Teresa, drying her own eyes on the back of her sleeve, as she turned to Rosa. "Rosa, you claim to be very wise. Tell me, where can one buy a Bible?" Rosa smiled, and said, "I'm not very sure, but I think in one of the book-shops one could find a Bible. I could find out in school tomorrow. I know one of my schoolmates has one."
"Good," exclaimed Teresa, "you must find out tomorrow morning. I've got an idea, Paula, a wonderful idea, so dry your tears. I must go tomorrow afternoon to the city, and if Rosa can find out tomorrow morning where a Bible can be found, we shall all four of us go and buy a new Bible there, and you can read it in your room and your uncle will never know."
"Oh, Teresa," cried Paula in a burst of gratitude, "what a good woman you are!"
"That's something I've never yet found out," said the old servant with a dry smile.
Then suddenly we all saw that something had begun to trouble Paula. "What's the matter now?" said Rosa. "Are you not content to get a new Bible?"
"Oh, yes," said Paula, "but under such circumstances that would deceive my uncle."
It was here that Teresa broke in. "No, no," she said, "you don't understand. I'm going to buy this Bible with my own money, and I can do as I please. If I care to buy a Bible, it's no one else's business."
But there was trouble in Paula's eyes as she said, "I would certainly like to have a Bible, but uncle has forbidden me to read it. I can see from what you say that it would be easy for you to buy another and read it yourselves, but my uncle has prohibited me and that settles it. I simply can't be a hypocrite and deceive him. Dear Teresa, I do certainly thank you from the bottom of my heart, but, you see, you had forgotten what uncle said. Now, listen, the Lord Jesus is going to help me! There are many beautiful passages of the Bible that I know by heart, and there are plenty of the Bible stories that I'll never forget. All these I will keep in my memory, and then besides I shall pray every day for my uncle, that he'll soon return my precious Bible to me, and give me permission to read it. I know the Lord will hear me, if I obey Him and pray with faith. Dear Teresa, I hope you're not going to be provoked with me."
"And why should I be, my precious treasure?"
"Well, just because I didn't want you to buy me a Bible."
"No, no, dear, no; you certainly are right, and a whole lot better than we are." And we, together with our old servant, could not help admiring the honesty of our sturdy country cousin.
"Teresa!" It was Paula who broke the silence that followed the above discussion.
"What now, Paula?"
"Will you pray for me?"
"I," said the astonished Teresa.
"Yes, please, Teresa dear."
"My poor little Paula, I never pray for myself, so how could I pray for you?"
Poor Paula seemed at a loss. "Well, you see," she said, hesitatingly in a trembling voice, "I'm afraid to do it. You see, I don't dare to forget God."
And so our good Teresa, in order to satisfy the poor child, promised to pray for her that very night.
"No," insisted Paula, "let's pray now."
Our poor servant looked around her in dismay.
"I—! I pray here! In front of you and Lisita and Rosa! Never—! Besides, I wouldn't know what to say."
"Do you mean to say that you don't know, 'Our Father which art in heaven?'"
"Perhaps, but it's some time since I've repeated that prayer. I remember my poor mother. I used to kneel beside her and repeat it when I was your age. Once in a while since then, I have said my 'paternoster.' But it's been many years since it's passed my lips, and I haven't even thought of it for ages. No, no; it's useless. No, Paula, you pray for us. We certainly need it, but as for me praying—a poor sinner like me—I tell you it's useless."
But Paula was not easily discouraged.
"Teresa," and Paula put her cheek against the wrinkled one of our old servant, "you know that Jesus died for us, and do you mean to say, notwithstanding that, you are living like a heathen."
"What's that you say? Like a heathen?" cried poor Teresa.
"Yes, Teresa dear, like a heathen. My father used to read me missionary stories on Sunday, and in these stories I always noticed that the heathen people live without praying to God, and that they didn't read the Bible, and that they didn't know how to sing any hymns, and they had no church to go to, that is, until the missionaries came. But we are different here in this house from the heathen because they had never heard of God." And then she added with one of those lovely smiles that always seemed to spread a halo over her, "All the heathen in the pictures that I saw had black skins, whereas you, Teresa, have such a lovely white face."
Poor Teresa, placed her well-worn hands over her wrinkled countenance, and said, "Paula, Paula, you certainly are right. So we are even less worthy of God's mercy than they are."
Paula looked at her for a moment in silence and then, kneeling down beside her, said, "Teresa, you just pray with me, won't you? I know the Lord Jesus will pardon you, and He'll help you to love Him for He has promised to give you a new heart. I'm only a little girl, but He helps me and He hears me when I pray, for that's what He has promised, Teresa. Once my father taught me a beautiful verse, and when my uncle returns my Bible, I'll show it to you, but this is what it says, 'Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out.'"
Poor Teresa, with her head hidden in her hands, could not reply.
"Do come and kneel with me," insisted Paula, pulling her by her apron. After a long silence suddenly Teresa fell heavily on her knees beside the bed. Paula up to this moment appeared to have forgotten the rest of us, but now taking both of us by the hand she invited us to kneel also.
"No," said Rosa, with an offended air, "I'll do no such thing."
"Nor will I." I said, a bit intimidated by my sister's refusal.
And so Teresa and Paula kneeled together, "'Our Father which art inHeaven,'" commenced the clear voice of Paula. Slowly came the repetition,'Our Father which art in Heaven,' and poor Teresa's deep voice trembledwith emotion.
"'Hallowed be Thy name'"
"'Hallowed be Thy name.'"
And now Teresa, gathering fresh courage, as the words of the great prayer began to return to her memory, the voices now mingled in the same majestic words from, oh, such different hearts—the one, pure and confiding, and the other now contrite and penitent.
Then, as they finished, Paula continued, "Lord Jesus, be pleased to bless my uncle, Teresa, Catalina, Rosa, Lisita and Louis. Oh, bless them, Lord, and help them all to come to Thee. And bless me, also, and give me of Thy goodness, for Thy name's sake, Amen."
"So may it be," sighed poor Teresa.
Paula opened her eyes, but closed them again as she saw that Teresa had not moved, and that she was struggling to add a prayer of her own. Then finally it came.
"Oh, my God, my God," murmured poor Teresa. "If you can have pity on a poor sinful woman like me, that has forgotten Thee for so many years, be pleased to pardon me, and change my poor wicked heart, in the name of Thy Son, Jesus Christ, Amen."
* * * * *
For a good while after that, Teresa made no allusion whatever to what had transpired in our little bedroom on that first Sunday after Paula's arrival; but we noticed a great change in her conduct She did not work harder—that would have been impossible—neither was she more unselfish, for a more unselfish person than our dear old servant would have been hard to find. But the thing we began to notice was that she was more patient and tender in her dealings with us children, and more charitable toward the great number of our poor neighbors, who would come to the door from time to time to "borrow" food—these poor, miserable neighbors whom she had despised on account of their laziness and untidiness. Beside all this, we saw no more of her days of bad humor and fretfulness. For instance, she treated our father with much more respect and listened without argument or impatience when, at times, he was unjust in his criticism of the house arrangements. Then we noticed also that all her little lies with which she tried to frighten us at times had completely disappeared.
In the cottages of our poor neighbors, there had existed an atmosphere of discouragement and desperation, brought on of course, through poverty and drink, and it was here that our good Teresa began to be known as a veritable friend. As she passed from door to door giving a word of encouragement here, or taking the burden temporarily from the shoulders of a poor tired mother there, we began to notice the under-current of a happy change in the atmosphere of these poor and destitute ones around us. It was easy to imagine that Teresa might be the cause of the change.
* * * * *
The day following the above-mentioned Sunday, Rosa was sitting by the bedside of Catalina who complained of her usual headache, and Teresa had gone out on an errand.
Paula, a bit exhausted with her emotions of the day before, appeared to have lost all animation, but soon her naturally happy nature asserted itself, and by the time my father returned from his work, she ran to meet him and opened the door as he entered, embracing him as if nothing had happened.
"Well, well," said my father, "I'm glad to see that you have recovered your good humor, Paula." A frank smile passed over Paula's face, but she said nothing. "And how has Catalina been today?" he said, turning to me.
"She has a terrible headache. Teresa is afraid she's going to be sick again."
"Poor girl! We must be especially careful then not to make any noise," and he turned to go into Catalina's room, but Paula detained him.
"Please, uncle, have you pardoned me?"
"What for, child?"
"For what occurred yesterday. Surely you remember, uncle. I was a bit stubborn about giving up my Bible."
My father looked down at her, surprised. "And now, you're perfectly willing that I keep it?"
"Oh, yes, of course, for I did not at all understand. Teresa tells me that you had no Bible, and you see I didn't know that. And she said that after you had read it, you would of course be giving it back to me. I am so sorry that I appeared so selfish. Please, pardon me, won't you, uncle dear?"
"I've already pardoned you, so don't worry about that. So you like to read your Bible?"
"Oh, yes; indeed I do, uncle."
"Well, perhaps some day I'll return it to you."
It was not exactly a promise, but Paula was willing to content herself with that much.
"Oh, thank you, thank you so much, uncle," said Paula as she embraced him.
"And so you love me a little, do you? In spite of everything?" asked my father smiling, as he took hold of her chin and turned her face up toward his.
"Oh, yes, indeed; you don't know how much!"
"You do?" said my father. "Well, that certainly gives me great pleasure. I see that soon we shall come to understand one another, you and I. By the way, I noticed that in your Bible there were quite a number of dry flowers. If you would like them, I will return them to you immediately."
"Oh, many thanks, uncle. I kept them there as remembrances of my father. I shall keep them in some book where I can look at them often—often!"
"That's what I thought, my little daughter. I'll go and get your Bible, and you yourself shall take them out."
But now Paula seemed to have a different idea. "No, I think that I prefer that they remain where they are," she said in an altered voice.
"What's that you say?" exclaimed my father, astonished. "How is it that you have so suddenly changed your mind?"
"Well, you see," explained Paula, trembling a bit, "they'd better remain where they are, for I love my Bible, and I've read it every day, and now if I saw it again, I'm afraid—I'm afraid—" and poor Paula's lip was trembling.
"I understand, I understand," said my father.
But on turning to go into Catalina's room, he hesitated with his hand on the latch of the door, and turning, he looked searchingly at Paula, as if he would know the secret of the innermost heart of this child, so loving, so angelic, and yet so absolutely natural.
Teresa had not been mistaken. Catalina became so critically ill during the following week, that my father lost all hope of her recovery. Not being able to be with her during the day, he watched at her bedside during the greater part of the night, and if it had not been for Teresa, who compelled him to go and take some rest, he would have, undoubtedly, suffered a collapse himself. How long those days appeared to be in spite of the happy companionship that I had found with my dear cousin Paula! My father hardly noticed us, absorbed as he was with the fear that filled his heart, and Teresa was occupied with so many tasks that she had no time for us either.
Rosa had to leave school in order to help nurse the sick one, and Paula also was required to stay home until the afternoon session. As for me, I was packed off to school in the morning, carrying my lunch in a little basket, fearing each night as I came back to the house that I would receive bad news as to Catalina. My! What grand resolutions for the future I made during those sad days—to try to love my poor sick sister, and to treat her better than I had done, should she recover.
One afternoon, I was surprised to find my father at home. It was only about five o'clock and he generally did not return from work until eight. He seemed so sad and depressed that I dared not embrace him as was our custom. Teresa crossed the dining-room and gave me her usual warning. "Don't make any noise, Lisita. Go and sit down and be quiet"
"Teresa," said my father in a low voice, "do you think Catalina would be able to see the children?"'
"Why do you ask that, sir?" she said.
"I would like them to see her that she may embrace them for the last time.You know what the doctor said."
"Oh, those doctors!" said Teresa in a scornful tone. "The doctors don't know what they're talking about. Don't lose hope, sir. I know that Catalina may not live to be very old, but if God wills her to live, she will do so in spite of the doctors."
"Yes, but you know how weak she is. She never will be able to survive so many complications. And yet, how can I bear such affliction? She reminds me so much of her mother, the same voice, the same blue eyes, and even her identical way of smiling. And now to follow this child to the cemetery and return to the house where she will never be any more. Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!"
"Why don't you consult the Great Physician, sir?"
"What do you mean by 'the Great Physician?'"
"I mean the Lord Jesus. Deliver Catalina into His hands. When He walked this earth, all the sick ones were brought to Him and He healed them all."
"But He's no longer on the earth."
"No; but His power is the same today as it was then."
"Teresa, do you pray nowadays?"
"Yes, sir, I do."
"When did you begin to pray?"
"From the time that Paula entered the house, sir."
"I suspected that."
"Now, please don't go and rebuke her, sir. If you only knew how she loves you, and how she prays for you and Catalina. Oh, sir, how many times she has made me blush for shame."
"How so, my good Teresa?"
"That's a fact, sir. I used to think to myself, 'You're a pretty good woman, you have suffered much in your life, you work hard, you don't do any harm to anybody, surely you will go to heaven.' But when I saw Paula and the reality of her religion, and how she loved God, oh, then, sir, I comprehended for the first time in my life that I was a sinner worthy of hell, and I prayed to God that He would pardon me."
"And—did He do it?"
"The Saviour assures us, sir, that 'He that cometh to Him, He will in no wise cast out.' So I dare to believe that He has pardoned me" Teresa was pale with emotion. It was the first time that she had confessed the Lord before men, and it cost her a good deal to do so to my father. He was apparently too depressed to be angry. After a moment of silence he said, "Where is Paula?"
"I sent her to the drug store, sir, to get certain medicines that the doctor ordered."
"When she returns, send her to Catalina's room. I shall remain there until, until—" My poor father could not conclude the sentence.
Then turning to me, "When Paula returns I wish you to come in to Catalina's room also, Lisita."
"Yes, father," I answered him in a low voice.
A quarter of an hour later Paula returned. Never shall I forget the anguish and terror that I experienced when Teresa, warning us to be quiet, led the way to the bedside of my dying sister.
Catalina did not appear to notice our entrance. Her eyes were closed, and her face so pale that I believed her already dead, but my father made signs to us to draw a little nearer and putting his hand over the forehead of my poor sister, he called to her gently, in a voice that betrayed great anguish.
"Catalina, Lisita and Paula have come to visit you. Would you not like to embrace them?"
"Lisita … Paula …" I heard Catalina murmur in a far-away voice. "Ah, yes, I remember. Help me up, father." My father lifted the poor thin body of his daughter. In spite of all I could do, I could not keep from crying, thinking that it would be the last time that I would embrace my big sister, whom I had loved so little. She looked at us for a long while, and then said calmly, "Have you two come to say good-bye to me?"
"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.
For some minutes, Catalina could not reply, but finally she said, "Lisita, don't cry any more, please. Now, listen."
I tried to calm myself.
"We need to ask each other's pardon, my poor little sister," she said.
"Now kiss me. Tell me that you forgive me."
"Oh, yes, indeed, I do forgive you," I answered, "from the bottom of my heart. It is I who have been wicked, whereas you have been so very, very sick, while I enjoy such good health."
"Yes, that's true," said Catalina, "but I'm older, and I should have shown you a better example. I had always thought of myself and now—it's too late to change! Come, dear Lisita, come and kiss me once more."
I could have wished to have stayed there on my knees for hours and hide my head with shame and tears, but I didn't dare refuse to show this last sign of affection for Catalina. So I laid my hot cheek against that of my sister, toying to bid her good-bye, and her tears mingled with mine.
When Paula's turn came, Catalina was so exhausted that she could hardly say a word. But finally, she said, "You will take my place at father's side, Paula. Father, I'm dying. Paula will take my place, and I know she will be a better daughter that I could have ever been."
Her strength was going rapidly and we could hardly hear her words. And now my father softly put her back on the pillows and motioned us to retire.
Exhausted by remorse and grief, I threw myself on my bed and continued crying until at last I fell into a heavy sleep.
* * * * *
During the week that followed, Catalina hovered between life and death and good old Dr. Lebon came and went two or three times a day. Teresa never went to bed, but took short cat-naps in her chair at times, as best she could, and my father made very rare and short visits to his office, bringing a good part of his work home with him.
Rosa now replaced Teresa, either in the kitchen or at the bedside of the invalid, as the case might be. And I continued at school where, thanks to the fears that filled my heart, I was a model of good conduct.
Paula had quickly learned to make herself useful. She lacked experience in a house like ours, but her willingness and cheerfulness more than made up for the clumsiness of her hands as she would say to Teresa, "Let me do that, dear Teresa; you are so tired, and you have so much work now." Teresa, accustomed as she was to perform everything herself, hesitated a little at first; but Paula would look at her in such a beseeching way that she generally yielded to her.
From the time that Catalina fell ill, Rosa had to make all the purchases in town, and this was not a small thing, for the distance from the old Convent to the city was considerable. At times Paula was allowed to go with her. "Why don't you let me go alone to the city?" Paula said to her. "If you did not have to go out, you could help Teresa so much more in caring for Catalina."
"That's true; but you couldn't go alone to the city. You'd get lost!"
"No, no, never fear such a thing. Let me go, and I'll have not a bit of trouble finding my way back." And Rosa, like Teresa, at last yielded to her pleading.
"How is Catalina now?" was my first question on returning from school.
"Always the same," Paula would say.
"Do you think, Paula, she'll ever get well?"
"That I don't know, Lisita. But I believe she will. Teresa prays for her, and so do I. God is able to heal all the sick people. You know that; don't you, Lisita?"
And then, as she thought of the dear sick one that the Lord had not healed, whose body was lying in the faraway Waldensian valley she added, "I know the Lord did not heal my father, but then, you know, he waspreparedto go."
"What do you mean 'prepared'?" I said, a bit puzzled.
"Oh, I mean to say that my father had given his heart to the Lord Jesus, and so he wasreadyto go to heaven."
"I suppose it is very difficult to prepare one's self for heaven," I said guardedly.
"Oh, no," said Paula. "If we ask the Lord Jesus to give us a new heart, He always does so."
"What do you think," I said, "has Catalina received a new heart?"
"I don't know," and Paula hesitated, "but I don't think so. She torments herself so, and seems so afraid to die."
"Oh, Paula, how I wish she would get well! Before she became so ill, I didn't care for her a bit, and I believe she didn't care for me either. But after having said good-bye to her that afternoon, I certainly do love her. Poor Catalina! In the middle of the school session, many times it comes to me, 'Suppose that Catalina should die today!' Then I do not seem to be able to pay any more attention to the lessons. It seems as if Catalina was there, dead in her bed, and I hardly dare to come home. If I had not been so wicked to her before she became so ill, I know I would not feel so."
"Now listen, Lisita! This is what you ought to do. You ought to ask theLord Jesus to heal Catalina."
"He'd never do it for me," I said.
"And why not?" asked Paula.
"Because I'm sure God doesn't hear the prayers of wicked people."
For a while Paula did not answer me. I saw that she was thinking about what I had just said. Suddenly, a ray of happiness illumined the dear face with its great dark eyes, as-she exclaimed, "Yes, He does hear wicked people."
"How do you know that?" I said.
"Because when Jesus Christ hung on the cross, one of the robbers asked Him to remember him when He came into His kingdom, and the Lord promised to do so."
"Well, then," I murmured, "perhaps the Lord might hear me also."
Paula turned about and faced me. "But, my dear Lisita, you're not wicked."
"Most certainly I am," said I.
"No, no, you're not that bad, and if you wish to be my sister, you will love the Lord Jesus, and you love Him now with all your heart; do you not, Lisita! I don't like to hear you say that you're wicked, for you are a good girl, and I love you dearly, Lisita!"
I? I? Good! I stared at my cousin. At any rate I knew that that very night, for the first time in my life, I was going to pray to the good Lord before I slept. Teresa had come in to say good-night and put out the light. I hadn't the courage to get up and kneel beside the bed as Paula did, but I joined my hands in prayer and closed my eyes as she had done, and with my head buried in the pillow, I murmured, "Oh, my God, I've never asked anything of You, and I wouldn't have dared to have said a word to You tonight if Paula had not said that You heard the prayers even of wicked penitent ones like me. My God, I ask You to heal my sister Catalina, and I ask it with all my heart I haven't been very good to her, and I'm very sorry, and I'm going to be better from now on. My God, please let her live, and if she gets well, I promise You now to do all my lessons faithfully for a whole week. And so I thank you ahead of time, Amen."
* * * * *
Two days later Catalina was out of danger! It was my father who told me the good news on my return from school. "Oh, how happy, how happy I am, father!" I cried as I danced for joy.
"No more than I am, my daughter," he answered gravely.
Catalina recovered slowly and seemed to constantly desire Paula's company. In the afternoon, on returning from school, I would find her by the bedside, always happy, always smiling, with the complete forgetfulness of self that had always been such a wonder to me.
A new gentleness seemed to come over my father as the days passed, and I noticed that he always seemed to observe Paula with a sort of puzzled air.
Paula, too, seemed to change. That little Alpine flower, accustomed to the pure mountain air of her beloved country, naturally could not be transplanted from her native soil without some damage, and besides, that sensitive conscience of hers always seemed to be in a struggle between obedience to her God and her duty towards my father.
"That girl is nothing more or less than stubborn," I heard my father say one day to Teresa; which remark our old servant answered with a grimace behind his back.
One day, Teresa with an air of triumph, showed us a New Testament on her return from town. Paula took it from her hand for a moment, and then returned it to our old servant after caressing the shining cover with great tenderness.
"Take it," said Teresa, "it's not only mine, but yours, and you will have more time to read it than I will."
"No, Teresa dear," and Paula sighed as she put her hands behind her back. "I know I'll get my Bible some day. That's what I've asked God for, and I know He answers prayer."
A little later, Paula said to me, "I certainly would have loved that New Testament, for there are two or three favorite passages with which I would like to refresh my memory, but I simply can't deceive my uncle. But what am I going to do, Lisita? I must never forget what I promised papa when he died." (Never forget, never forget! was Paula's constant preoccupation.)
But in spite of these problems which seemed to confront her, her perfect faith in God came to her aid, and seemed to give her wisdom to take the right road through it all. At times I would surprise her on her knees with her eyes closed and a certain strange indefinable light on her tear-stained face. Immediately however as she sensed my presence, she would spring to her feet and I found the same natural happy creature that I delighted to call my companion. It was not in vain that she prayed! Her God, whom she had not ceased to serve in the midst of the worldly atmosphere that surrounded her, seemed to come to comfort and strengthen her.
Away off here in Villar, the little orphan was not forgotten. One day, to her great excitement, Paula received a letter, directed personally to her, from someone from her own beloved land.
"What beautiful writing!" exclaimed Rosa. "Who could it be from?"
"I think it must be from my god-mother," responded Paula, trembling with emotion. "Oh, do give me the letter, Rosa."
Rosa, always full of fun, pretended to keep the letter, to the dismay of our small cousin, who didn't always see through our jokes, but finally yielded to her entreaties.
"Wouldn't you like to read it to us, Rosa?" asked Paula, tearing open the envelope. "I find it much harder to read writing than printing."
Rosa was only too glad to learn the secrets contained in such an unusual communication. And so this is what we heard as she read:
"My dear god-daughter: I cannot tell you how dismayed I was on my return from Geneva to learn of the death of thy father. I know he is at peace in heaven, happy at the side of the Lord he so dearly loved. But it is for thee that my heart was torn with anguish. Canst thou imagine the pain that filled it when I found on my return to Villar, that both of you had gone from me?
"The Pastor in the village told me that thou hadst gone to your uncle's house in Normandy, and that thou wert well-cared for. But oh, how I would have wished to have kept thee with me. But thou knowest, that for me, that would have been impossible, having to care for my old father and mother, as well as pay off their debts. I know, however, with the help of God, some day I shall be free. Then we shall return to buy the little farm where my father made us such a happy home, and at that time I trust that thou wilt come back and live with me—but then, I suppose thou wilt have become a great lady, and wilt not be content to come back to such a simple life with an obscure country woman (although I really don't believe that)."
"Oh, no, no, no!" suddenly interrupted Paula. "Godmother knows very well that I shall never forget the happy life in Villar."
"Then, you will go back there?" inquired Rosa.
"Of course. Why not?" and Paula looked quite surprised.
"What's that you say? You would leave all of us who love you so?"
"Oh, no indeed, you shall all come with me," responded Paula, who generally had a way of solving every difficulty.
Rosa smiled and returned to her reading.
"I have just been to see the grave of thy dear father where I planted some hardy white roses which will stand the winter winds. I went also to the neighboring village of Endroit where thou usedst to visit the poor, and immediately I was surrounded by thy friends. Papa Pierre Vigne especially sends his love. They all spoke of thee and called down blessings on thy head, especially that thou mightst be a witness for the Lord in thy new home. Mama Vigne recalled the time when thou visitedst her when she was so sick, and how happy thou madest her when thou didst sing those beautiful hymns to her. I believe, my dear one, that if thou shouldst write her a few lines, it would be like letting in a little heaven on her simple life, as she would thus see that the daughter of their best friend is thinking still of those whom she used to make happy by her heavenly presence. All those that have known thee and know that I am writing send kisses and loving remembrances. Many persons have asked that thou shouldst pray for them. They love thee so and miss thy presence, my dear, dear god-daughter! Continue, Paula, always to be obedient. Love everybody, and above all else, the God of thy father who awaits thee in heaven. Love not the world nor the things that are in the world. Be thou a valiant soldier, faithful unto death, and Christ shall give thee the crown of life, for He will never forget thee, and neither do we in this far-off valley, nor thy good deeds which thou hast done amongst us. And now, may God bless thee and keep thee safe in His hands…. Thy loving godmother, Evangelina, who prays for thee."
Paula, overcome by emotion, buried her face on Rosa's shoulder.
"Wait a minute," said Rosa, "don't cry. Here is something more."
Paula dried her eyes and listened intently as Rosa continued, "P. S. I am sending thee five francs by money order which you can redeem at your post office. Buy something with it by which to remember me."
"Five francs!" repeated Paula, with astonishment now instead of tears on her face, "Are you sure?"
"Of course. See. Here is the money order."
Paula, who never in her life had owned a single cent, could hardly believe that she was the possessor of so much riches!
Her godmother's letter was, of course, a tremendous event for all of us. Rosa had to read it over and over many times, and it seemed as if Paula wished to learn it by heart. Even my father read it with great attention and appeared quite pleased. Teresa declared that "The god-mother was surely a 'très comme il faut,'" but she did not explain to us why.
One thing however displeased Teresa—the eagerness with which Paula immediately planned to spend all her money.
"How now!" she exclaimed, "Is it burning a hole in your pocket? I should think a little girl like you would prefer to keep the money."
"Keep it?" said Paula. "Why should I keep it?"
But the next day, when Teresa announced that she was going to the city, she invited us both to come along. "What areyougoing to buy?" she asked Paula.
"Oh, so many things. You shall see!"
And the "things" which we "saw" were certainly a great surprise to us. First we went to the book-shop where a number of souvenir cards were purchased to send back to Villar. From there, on passing a window filled with fruit, Paula exclaimed, "Oh, my, Catalina certainly does love grapes. I must get her some."
"Grapes!" said Teresa. "Look at the price, you silly child."
"Never mind. I'm rich this afternoon."
"Well, you won't be rich long, if you make many purchases like that!"
But Paula would not be satisfied until a great bunch of the luscious fruit was safely stowed away in Teresa's bag, destined for Catalina. Having arrived in front of a stationer's shop, two pencils went into the bag, one for Rosa and the other for Louis.
"And aren't you going to get anything for yourself?" said Teresa, with a quizzical grin.
"Oh, you shall see," laughed Paula. "Besides, you know, Teresa, I've got everything I need, and a good deal more."
But now a present for my father was the next object for discussion. "Men don't need presents," said Teresa impatiently.