Things finally quieted down and the girls prolonged their prayer, hoping to see the Angel come. But the Angel did not come. The calleja, which a little while later would be for them a little bit of heaven (as Conchita referred to it) was on the evening of June 19th, under a cloudy sky, with the derisive laughter, the stones, and the blowing wind above, an unpleasant scene of painful disillusion.
Why didn't the Angel come? Would he perhaps come at another time?
When it became late — it was 8:30 — they lifted their bare knees off the stones of the rocky road, and went down toward the church.
Before arriving there, they met the schoolmistress. She tried to raise their spirits with a childish explanation that they probably did not believe at the time:
Do you know why he hasn't come?
Surely it's because it's so cloudy.
In the church they made a visit to the Blessed Sacrament.
The girls themselves could not explain the unusual connection that seemed to unite the calleja with the church. In the calleja nothing had been said to them, not a word of explanation, nor a command, nor even a simple request, and they were uneducated children; but a mysterious instinct brought them from the one place to the other. Yes, what they had seen with their eyes of flesh, surrounded by light in the calleja, had guided them firmly and gently to the One there in the church, Who can only be found with the eyes of faith amid the shadows of mystery. In the former place was the wonder of the vision, within the latter was the true security of Him Who is always a Refuge, Who cannot deceive.
As soon as her daughter appeared in the kitchen, Aniceta asked: Did you see the Angel?
The same question must have been heard in the homes of the other three; and the answers must have all been the same as Conchita's response to her mother:
No. Today we didn't see him!
Then I went about my work as usual.
Yes, work as usual was what remained. As if the day before had been no more than a meaningless flash of light in the somber life of a village child. Everything would be forgotten little by little, and finally there would only remain the dismal monotony of her poor daily surroundings and work as usual.
No wonder that after supper as she went to bed at a quarter to ten she was not able to sleep. Her adolescent mind was filled with dejection:
Since I couldn't sleep, I started to pray.
And then I heard a voice that said to me, Don't be troubled; you will see me again.
The voice left a deep impression and Conchita continued praying, although with a much different state of mind. She went on praying for a long time until finally she fell asleep. And so with a finale of prayer the day of June 19th, 1961 ended; a day of excitement in Garabandal, full of contrasting feelings and contrasting words, varying between hope and fear, between disbelief and desire.