PERHAPS AN INTENTION
she entered religion she had almost never seen a garden, for she worked in the mines high up in the mountains. Now everything grows under her hand.—A year has gone by, señora, since our accident. I lost two who had been children in my orphanage, but you lost a real child of your own?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And a great friend?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Tell me. . . .”
And then the whole tide of Camila’s long despair, her lonely obstinate despair since her girlhood, found its rest on that dusty friendly lap among Sister Juana’s fountains and roses.
•••••••
But where are sufficient books to contain the events that would not have been the same without the fall of the bridge? From such a number I choose one more.
“The Condesa d’Abuirre wishes to see you,”
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