Tears blinded Rosa. After a time she left the
black woman mourning among the ruins and stole away to the sunken
garden. Here the marks of vandalism were less noticeable.
Nevertheless, few signs of beauty remained. Neglected vines
drooped spiritlessly from the ledges: such fruit-trees as had been
spared were sickly and untended; time and the elements had all but
completed the disheartening work.
The well remained, although it had been planked over, but it was
partially filled up with rubbish, as Rosa discovered when she
peered into it. Only a tiny pool of scum was in the bottom. After
a long scrutiny the girl arose, convinced at last of her brother's
delusion, and vaguely ashamed of her own credulity. This was about
the last repository that such a man as Don Esteban, her father,
would have been likely to select; for, after all, the most
valuable part of his fortune had consisted of the deeds of title
to the plantations. No, if ever there had been a treasure, it was
hidden elsewhere; all of value that this well contained for Rosa
was her memory of a happiness departed. Of such memories, the
well, the whole place, was brimful. Here, as a child, she had
romped with Esteban. Here, as a girl, she had dreamed her first
dreams, and here O'Reilly, her smiling knight, had found her.
Yonder was the very spot where he had held her in his arms and
begged her to await the day of his return.
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