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acted as she did I do not know. The fact remains that she did not go to the village for help, but came on up here, alone. It may be that the accident had dazed her, so that she could only remember enough to struggle to the place she knew she was making for; it is certain that when she reached our gates she was in the far stages of exhaustion. She was wet through, and fainting.
    The damage was done from which she died."

    "I—see. You had the doctor from the village, of course?"
    "Of course." The black eyes came up at last to meet Jennifer's, and in them, unmistakably, was anger, but she went on evenly enough: "Rest assured that we did what we could, senorita; we have some skill in these matters. Monsieur le Medecin was good enough to say that she could not have been in better hands." She paused, and then added, "Father Anselm was with her at the end. He will tell you that she died in peace."
    Around them, in the quiet garden, rose the thousand healing scents of leaf and flower. Jennifer, her anger fading, felt herself touched with a sense of shame. She said, impulsively, "I'm sorry, Sister, I didn't mean to imply that you didn't look after my cousin; I'm sure that everything was done that could be. You must forgive me—this has been a shock, you see; even yet, I can't really take it in. It seems impossible that Gillian------" She stopped.
    A smile touched the corners of the thin mouth, and was gone. When she answered, her voice had lost it coldness and was gentle enough. "I understand, senorita: believe me, I understand. This has not been easy for you. Perhaps I told you too directly; here, you see, we grow to accept the fact of death, and we do not regard it as a tragedy. It's hard for us to remember that, to you, death is only grief."
    "You're perfectly right, of course," said Jennifer, "and I would have understood that if the news hadn't come so suddenly. But you see, I've come a long way, with all the excitement of expecting to see my cousin at the end of the journey. We've been so many years apart, and there's— there was so much to say. That's partly why it was—well, so shattering. If only we'd been told about it before------"
    "But that was impossible. I told you she was ill, delirious. She could tell us nothing about herself or her people. If we had known there were relations we should of course have let you know, but she mentioned no one."
    "Yes, of course. You said so. It was only," said Jennifer, half-apologetically, "that I thought there ought to have been some mention among her papers, my own letter, perhaps------"
    "There was nothing."
    The Spaniard's voice was smooth and her face had showed no change of expression, but the finality of the little sentence was as palpable as a blow.
    "Nothing," she repeated, in that flat voice that still gave the impression of overemphasis. Almost of warning, thought Jennifer. Keep off: keep out . And again behind the veiled eyes came the gleam of what, this time, was discernibly calculation.
    The certainty that her instinct had been right—that here was something, if not wrong, at least not fully explained—assailed Jennifer with a rush. She said nothing more, but watched the shuttered face, waiting for the explanation that would wipe away the uneasiness that the interview had awaked in her. But the Spaniard made no attempt to explain anything. She smiled again, and Jennifer wondered how she could ever have seen any warmth in that arid twisting of the lips.
    She turned away with cool decision toward the tall wrought-iron gate in the wall.
    "And now, if you would like to see your cousin's grave . . ."
    Without another word, Jennifer followed her out of the garden.

5 Marche Funèbre: dolente
    The graveyard was small, bounded on three sides by the same high walls, and on the fourth by the chapel, whose transept door gave directly on to the smooth turf. In the wall opposite to this another door led apparently straight out on to the mountainside, but this, unlike the entrance