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166 near midnight when the door of Felipe's room opened, and he and his mother came out, still speaking in low tones. Felipe lay down on his couch; his mother, bending over, kissed him, bade him good-night, and went into her own room.

It had been some time now since Alessandro had left off sleeping on the veranda floor by Felipe's side. Felipe was so well it was not needful. But Felipe felt sure he would come to-night, and was not surprised when, a few minutes after the Señora's door closed, he heard a low voice through the vines, “Señor Felipe?”

“Hush, Alessandro,” whispered Felipe. “Do not make a sound. To-morrow morning early I will see you, behind the little sheepfold. It is not safe to talk here.”

“Where is the Señorita?” Alessandro breathed rather than said.

“In her room,” answered Felipe.

“Well?” said Alessandro.

“Yes,” said Felipe, hoping he was not lying; and this was all Alessandro had to comfort himself with, through his long night of watching. No, not all; one other thing comforted him,—the notes of two wood-doves, that at intervals he heard, cooing to each other; just the two notes, the call and the answer, “Love?” “Here.” “Love?” “Here,”—and long intervals of silence between. Plain as if written on a page was the thing they told.

“That is what my Ramona is like,” thought he, “the gentle wood-dove. If she is my wife my people will call her Majel, the Wood-Dove.”