"Senor! Do you look for something--some
one--"
"N-no. Yes--" he answered, abstractedly. "Yes, I am looking for
something--some one."
"Something you have lost?"
"Something I have lost!" The question came to him faintly, but it
was so in tune with his unhappy mood that it affected him
strangely. He found that his eyes were blurring and that an aching
lump had risen into his throat. This was the breaking-point.
O'Reilly's hearing, too, was going wrong, for he imagined that
some one whispered his name. God! This place was not dead--it was
alive--terribly alive with memories, voices, a presence unseen yet
real. He laid hold of the nearest bush to steady himself, he
closed his eyes, only to hear his name spoken louder:
"O'Rail-ye!"
Johnnie brushed the tears from his lashes. He turned, he listened,
but there was no one to be seen, no one, that is, except the dusky
cripple who had straightened herself and was facing him, poised
uncertainly. He looked at her a second time, then the world began
to spin dizzily and he groped his way toward her. He peered again,
closer, for everything before his eyes was swimming.
The woman was thin--little more than a skeleton--and so frail that
the wind appeared to sway her, but her face, uplifted to the sun,
was glorified. O'Reilly stood rooted, staring at her until she
opened her eyes, then he voiced a great cry:
"ROSA!" What more he said he never knew .
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