When I awoke all was darkness around me. I threw out my arms and opened
the damask curtains. Not a ray of light entered the room. I felt
refreshed, and from this I concluded I must have slept long. I slipped
out upon the floor and commenced groping for my watch. Someone knocked.
"Come in!" I called.
The door opened, and a flood of light gushed into the apartment. It was
a servant bearing a lamp.
"What is the hour?" I demanded.
"Nine o'clock, _mi amo_," (my master), was the reply.
The servant set down the lamp and went out. Another immediately
entered, carrying a salver with a small gold cup.
"What have you there?"
"_Chocolate_, master; Dona Joaquina has sent it."
I drank off the beverage, and hastened to dress myself. I was
reflecting whether I should pass on to camp without seeing any one of
the family. Somehow, my heart felt less heavy. I believe the morning
always brings relief to pain, either mental or bodily. It seems to be a
law of nature--at least, so my experience tells me. The morning air,
buoyant and balmy, dulls the edge of anguish. New hopes arise and new
projects appear with the sun. The invalid, couch-tossing through the
long watches of the night, will acknowledge this truth.