“Surely,” he thought, “surely—­it cannot be the Senora—­in a hammock!” And then he suddenly realized that the disease must have taken her flesh.

His hands trembled as he dismounted and tied his horse to a tree, and he lingered as long as he could, for he felt that his face was white.  But he was a man long used to self-control, and in a moment he walked steadily forward and ascended the steps to the veranda.  And then as he stood looking down upon the hammock he needed all the control he possessed.

For the Senora had gone and Delfina Carillo lay there.  Not the magnificent pulsing creature of old, for her face was pinched and little blue veins showed everywhere; but the ugly browns had gone with her flesh, her skin was white, and her cheeks flamed with color.  Her eyes looked enormous, and her mouth had regained its curves and mobility, although it drooped.  She wore a soft white wrapper with much lace about the throat; and she looked twenty-six, and beautiful, wreck as she was.

“Delfina!” he articulated.  “Delfina!” And then he sat down, for his knees were shaking.  The blood seemed rushing through his brain, and after that first terrible but ecstatic moment of recognition, he was conscious of a poignant regret for the loss of his brown old friend.  He glanced about, involuntarily.  Where had she gone—­that other personality?  For even the first soul of the woman looked from the great eyes in the hammock.

Delfina stared at him for some moments, without speaking.  Then she said, with a sigh, “Ay—­it is Juan.”

She sat up abruptly.  “Listen,” she said, speaking rapidly.  “At first I no know you, for the mind wander much; and then Marcia tell me I think always I am the girl again.  Sometimes, even when I have the sense, I theenk so too, for am alone, have nothing to remind, and I like theenk that way.  When I am seeck first Herminia coming to see me, but I write her, after, am well again, for I know she and the husband want to go to Mexico.  Then, after I get worse, I am very glad she going, that all my girls are away; for the dreams I have when the mind is no right give me pleasure and bring back the days when am young and so happy.  I feel glad I go to die that way and not like the old peoples.  So happy I am sometimes, Juan, you cannot theenk!  Was here, you remember, for two months before I marry, and often I see you and Enrique and all my friends, and myself so gay and beautiful, and all the caballeros so crazy for me, and all the splendid costumes and horses.  Ay California!  Her youth, too, is gone, Juan!  Never she is Arcadia again.”  She paused, but did not lie down, and in a few moments went on:  “And often I theenk of you—­often.  So strange, for love Enrique then; but—­I no know—­missing you terreeblay when you go to Washington, and read all they say about you in the papers.  So long now since Enrique going, and the love go long before—­the love that make me marry him, I mean, for always love the husband;