They were walking in the garden at sunset, and waiting for the clock of San Fernando to strike seven.
Juanita had told her friend of the chocolates--all soft inside--which were to come through the hole in the wall; and the golden haired girl had confided in Juanita that she had never loved her as she did at that moment.

Which was, perhaps, not unnatural.
The garden of the convent school is large, and spreads far down the slope of the hill.

There are many fruit-trees and a few cypress.

Where the stream runs there are bunches of waving bamboos, and at the lower end, where the wall is broken, there is a little grove of nut trees, where the nightingales sing.
"It must be seven; come, let us go slowly towards the trees," said Juanita.

They both looked round eagerly.