She wanted, oh, so desperately, to believe in it, but the grinding misery of her situation made it hard to do so.  Wonders like that came true only in fairy stories, she told herself; and certainly she had no cause to consider herself a favorite of fortune.

More than once she was tempted to confide in Evangelina and Asensio, but she thought better of it.  Although she put implicit faith in Evangelina’s discretion, she knew that Asensio was not the sort of fellow to be trusted with a secret of great magnitude--he was boastful, talkative, excitable; he was just the sort, to bring destruction upon all of them.  Rosa had sufficient intelligence to realize that even if she found her father’s riches they would only constitute another and a greater menace to the lives of all of them.  Nevertheless, she wished to set her mind at rest once and for all.  Taking Evangelina with her, she climbed La Cumbre one day in search of roots and vegetables.

It turned out to be a sad experience for both women.  The negress wept noisily at the destruction wrought by Pancho Cueto, and Rosa was overcome by painful memories.  Little that was familiar remained; evidence of Cueto’s all-devouring greed spoke from the sprouting furrows his men had dug, from the naked trees they had felled and piled in orderly heaps, from the stones and mortar of the house itself.  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.  Well, she had waited.

But was that Rosa Varona who had promised so freely and so confidently this pitiful Rosa whose bones protruded through her rags?  It could not be.  Happiness, contentment, hope—­these were fictions; only misery, despair, and pain were real.  But it had been a glorious dream, at any rate—­a dream which Rosa vowed to cherish always.