Litchfield enquirer., 1871-05-11
md a part of the Moo.ish ruins.

and a part of the Moblish ruins.
 One morning I Proceeded to avail my. self of his permission with my sketching. book and colors. Aa I turned an angle oi the ruins to reach the point of view ] wished to take for my picture. slight fig ure clothed in black and closely yelled darted past me, and entering one of the cottages have mentioned closed the dool after her. The apparation startled me- the place was so retired; the rustic of silk and the hutter of lace seemed as much out of place there as my own appearance doubtless was to the aboriginal inhabi tants.
 The next day returned to complete my sketch. was just touching in the scarlet geraniums that grow 50 luxuriantly about the old arches. forming covert for the wild birds that flew in and out with chirI and twitter, when I wss surprised at hear ing my name pronounced in a sweet, low voice-a voice that knew. I started up throwing down my sketching materials in my eagerness, and clasping Sancha in my arms. She looked up in my face tearfully tremblingly. :.
 "Oh, I am so gladp she cried. "You OO AOt OCAOtS AtS tucA-tuab uOIGlUlo bulu S she said of me?"
 As I seated myself again, leaving room for her beside me, she sank to my feet looking at me with pleading. plying eyes {" You do not believe it?" she repeated.
 ' Not word" said l. drawing her on to the seat beside me. She pressed hel lips on my hand as it held hers, and then laid her cheek against it with the caress ing action of child.
 But, Saneha, am surprised! How dc you happen to be here in this queer. out ofthe way nook? quite thought hoped that you were at home with yon' father?"
 An, mo-" she exclaimed with & fright. ensd expression, eff he knew he would be 80 unhappy! Besides. how could go: How could get there all by myself?"
 This Was true when came to think ot it. There was no railroad, not even a stage coach; nothing but road for mules.
 Sancha's tears began to fall at mention of her father. l comforted her as well as l could. and then begged her to tell me all that had happened, and to let me try and help her if I could.
 We were sitting upon block of stone thrown down by the earthquakes throes long ago, with no auditors but the birds The walls of the cathedral rising up blank and massive. threw it's shade over us as we sat; the noise of the city was only heard afar off, like the murmur of the distant seas: and there Sancha told me all. Don Duarte had woed her and sought her love; how Donna Camilla had discovered it, and had driven her from the house with such words as no woman ought to use to an. other: how she had He'd in the dusk of evening. and had taken refuge here with an old woman who had been her mother nurse. ].
 "And Don Duaftes dSes he know where you are?"
 "Nol" she exclaimed, "I did not think SO much of the difference between us at first; but now know he can never marry 8 poor girl like me. If were to let him follow me, what would he think of me? You will not tell him, Menina!'
 No-I would not tell him; yet, at any rate, understood the cause of his melan- choly bow, and thought as we'll he should suffer little longer, till he proved what metal he was made of, "But your father, Sancha?" I asked, after few minutes si : lsnce.
 My father knows nothing" she re- piled, hastily. "See." she added, taking a letter from her pocket. ''this came the very day that the cruel woman found out that Don Duarte loved me-" She spoke the last words in low tone, lingering over them as if they were very sweet to her; could see plainly enough that the dark eyed young Baron had not spoken in vain.
 pressed her little hand as I took the letter she wished me to read; such loving letter. written by one little accustomed ta the pen, perhaps, but so good, so tender, with dash of the poetical, withal. ''The roses are blooming, and the birds are sigh. ing just as when thou vert here, Sanchita no perfume, the birds song no sweetness to thy old father while his darling is away. It is more than year since thou hast left me, quirida-too long for the few years I may have to live; come back to me; come back that I may hold thee in my arms and bless thee once more. If thou dost not come, I shall seek thee; for life without my Sanchita is empty"
 Have you answered this?" Iinquired.
 "Yes," she replied. "I answered it after I came here-I told him that I Was happy that they were kind to me-that I did not wish to leave."
 But Sancha-was not that wrong?"
 "Wrong, to keep one you love from be- ing unhappy" She lifted her lovely eyes to mine, inquiringly. "aa
 "I think it is always wrong to deceive, even from kind, loving motive"
 "What would you have me do?'
 "Tell the truth, and trust in God, I an- swered. *sg 5 s
 Mass was being celebated in the cathe- dral; while we were talking we heard strains of music; and now the Salutaris Hostia'' rose and swelled in the air. I held my breath to listen; Sancha listened, too, and crossed herself; and then looked at me. 4
 ssAhr' she whispered. "y you are % good, and yet you are Q heretic. ~
 !" We had better not talk too much about any ones goodness" I replied; and then thought for minute. My first impulse was to take Sancha home with me; but in that case I could not keep her concealed from the Baron, who vas in. the habit oi calling in at unexpected times. As fol any quarrel with Donna Camilla. that gave me no concern. Tell me, I said at last, "is old Pandrilla good to you?"
 : ]" Oh. yes! very good-yery kind" An. other pause. sas. N 1.s s5f
 "Sancha, will you trust me?'' tr
 Have not trusted youT"
 Let me write to your father, you ought to be with him; if he knew all. he woold certainly come for you" us. Ie
 Ssncha changed color, and hung hel h>oI uuo ~,0clI e>o ~o ~-l.--.',, a