“Amen,” responded the housekeeper.

The next day, the good father ordered the burial of the poor woman, and he himself read the service over her grave.

Twelve years from this time, the curate of San-Pedro, then seventy years of age, was warming himself in the sun, in front of his house.  It was winter, and there had been no sunshine for two days.

Beside him stood a boy, ten or twelve years old, reading aloud the daily prayers, and from time to time casting a look of envy on a youth of about sixteen, tall, handsome, and muscular, who labored in the garden adjoining that of the priest.  Margarita, being now blind, was listening attentively, when the youngest boy exclaimed, “O! what a beautiful coach,” as a splendid equipage drove up near the door.

A domestic, richly dressed, dismounted, and asked the old priest to give him a glass of water for his master.

“Carlos,” said the priest to the younger boy, “give this nobleman a glass of water, and add to it a glass of wine, if he will accept it.  Be quick!”

The gentleman alighted from the coach.  He seemed about fifty.

“Are the children your nephews?” inquired he.

“Much better,” said the priest, “they are mine by adoption, be it understood.”

“How so?”

“I shall tell you, for I can refuse nothing to such a gentleman; for poor and inexperienced in the world as I am, I need good advice, how best to provide for these two boys.”

“Make ensigns of them in the king’s guards, and in order to keep up a suitable appearance, he must allow them a pension of six thousand ducats.”

“I ask your advice, my lord, not mockery.”

“Then you must have your church rebuilt, and by the side of it, a pretty parsonage house, with handsome iron railings to inclose the whole.  When this work will be complete, it shall be called the church of the Vasa d’Agua, (Glass of Water.) Here is the plan of it, will it suit you?”

“What can this mean?”

“What vague remembrance is mine; these features—­this voice mean that I am Don Jose della Ribera.  Twelve years ago, I was the brigand Jose.  I escaped from prison, and the times have changed; from the chief of robbers, I have become the chief of a party.  You befriended me.  You have been a father to my children.  Let them come to embrace me—­let them come,” and he opened his arms to receive them.  They fell on his bosom.

When he had long pressed them, and kissed them by turns, with tears, and half-uttered expressions of gratitude, he held out his hand to the old priest—­

“Well, my father, will you not accept the church?”

The curate, greatly moved, turned to Margarita, and said:  “Whosoever shall give even a cup of cold water unto one of the least, being my disciple; verily I say to you, he shall not lose his reward.”

“Amen,” responded the old dame, who wept for joy at the happiness of her master, and his children by adoption, at whose departure she also grieved.