The old woman went one day to the Archbishop's palace.

Don Sebastian was engaged and unable to see her, but he sent her two pesetas by one of the servants.
"They don't mean badly," said the gardener's widow, giving her collection to the poor mother, "but each one lives for himself, and his neighbour may manage as he can.

No one divides his cloak with another--take this, and see how you can get out of your trouble." They fed a little better in the shoemaker's house; the miserable scrofulous children collected in the cloister profited most by the baby's illness; it was growing daily weaker, lying motionless for hours, with almost imperceptible breathing, on its mother's lap.
When the unhappy child died, all the people of the Claverias rushed to the home.

Inside could be heard the mother's wailings, strident, interminable, like the bellowing of a wounded beast; outside the father wept silently, surrounded by his friends.
"It died just like a bird," he said with long pauses, his words broken by sobs.

"His mother held him on her knees--I was working--'Antonio, Antonio!' she called, 'see, what is the matter with the child, it is moving its mouth and making grimaces ?' I ran up quickly, its face was quite dusky--as if it had a veil over it.