There were not many roads;
she could ask. The convent, the bare thought of which had been so
terrible to Ramona fourteen days ago, when the Senora had
threatened her with it, now seemed a heavenly refuge, the only
shelter she craved. There was a school for orphans attached to the
convent at San Juan Bautista, she knew; she would ask the Father
to let her go there, and she would spend the rest of her life in
prayer, and in teaching the orphan girls. As hour after hour she sat
revolving this plan, her fancy projected itself so vividly into the
future, that she lived years of her life. She felt herself middle-aged,
old. She saw the procession of nuns, going to vespers, leading the
children by the hand; herself wrinkled and white-haired, walking
between two of the little ones. The picture gave her peace. As soon
as she grew a little stronger, she would set off on her journey to the
Father; she could not go just yet, she was too weak; her feet
trembled if she did but walk to the foot of the garden. Alessandro
was dead; there could be no doubt of that.
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