Chapter 5…

Chapter 5

The day following was filled to the brim with bustling activity. Josè plunged into his new life with an enthusiasm he had never known before. His first care was to relieve Rosendo and his good wife of the burden of housing him. Rosendo, protesting against the intimation that the priest could in any way inconvenience him, at last suggested that the house adjoining his own, a small, three-room cottage, was vacant, and might be had at a nominal rental. Some repairs were needed; the mud had fallen from the walls in several places; but he would plaster it up again and put it into habitable condition at once.

During the discussion Don Mario, the Alcalde, called to pay his respects to Josè. He had just returned from a week's visit to Ocaña, whither he had gone on matters of business with Simití's most eminent citizen, Don Felipe Alcozer, who was at present sojourning there for reasons of health. Learning of the priest's recent severe illness, Don Mario had hastened at once to pay his devoirs. And now the Holy Virgin be praised that he beheld the Cura again fully restored! Yes, the dismal little house in question belonged to him, but would the Cura graciously accept it, rent free, and with his most sincere compliments? Josè glanced at Rosendo and, reading a meaning in the slight shake of his head, replied that, although overwhelmed by the Alcalde's kindness, he could take the cottage only on the condition that it should become the parish house, which the Church must support. A shade of disappointment seemed to cross the heavy face of Don Mario, but he graciously acquiesced in the priest's suggestion; and arrangements were at once concluded whereby the house became the dwelling place of the new Cura.

Rosendo thereupon sent out a call for assistants, to which the entire unemployed male population of the town responded. Mud for the walls was hastily brought from the lake, and mixed with manure and dried grass. A half dozen young men started for the islands to cut fresh thatch for the roof. Others set about scraping the hard dirt floors; while Don Mario gave orders which secured a table, several rough chairs, together with iron stewpans and a variety of enameled metal dishes, all of which Rosendo insisted should be charged against the parish. The village carpenter, with his rusty tools and rough, undressed lumber, constructed a bed in one of the rooms; and Juan, the boatman, laboriously sought out stones of the proper shape and size to support the cooking utensils in the primitive dirt hearth.

Often, as he watched the progress of these arrangements, Josè's thoughts reverted longingly to his father's comfortable house in far-off Seville; to his former simple quarters in Rome; and to the less pretentious, but still wholly sufficient ménage of Cartagena. Compared with this primitive dwelling and the simple husbandry which it would shelter, his former abodes and manner of life had been extravagantly luxurious. At times he felt a sudden sinking of heart as he reflected that perhaps he should never again know anything better than the lowly life of this dead town. But when his gaze rested upon the little Carmen, flying hither and yon with an ardent, anticipatory interest in every detail of the preparations, and when he realized that, though her feet seemed to rest in the squalid setting afforded by this dreary place, yet her thought dwelt ever in heaven, his heart welled again with a great thankfulness for the inestimable privilege of giving his new life, in whatever environment, to a soul so fair as hers.

While his house was being set in order under the direction of Rosendo, Josè visited the church with the Alcalde to formulate plans for its immediate repair and renovation. As he surveyed the ancient pile and reflected that it stood as a monument to the inflexible religious convictions of his own distant progenitors, the priest's sensibilities were profoundly stirred. How little he knew of that long line of illustrious ancestry which preceded him! He had been thrust from under the parental wing at the tender age of twelve; but he could not recall that even before that event his father had ever made more than casual mention of the family. Indeed, in the few months since arriving on ancestral soil Josè had gathered up more of the threads which bound him to the ancient house of Rincón than in all the years which preceded. Had he himself only been capable of the unquestioning acceptance of religious dogma which those old Conqueros and early forbears exhibited, to what position of eminence in Holy Church might he not already have attained, with every avenue open to still greater preferment! How happy were his dear mother then! How glorious their honored name!--

With a sigh the priest roused himself and strove to thrust these disturbing thoughts from his mind by centering his attention upon the work in hand. Doña Maria came to him for permission to take the moldy vestments from the sacristía to her house to clean them. The Alcalde, bustling about, panting and perspiring, was distributing countless orders among his willing assistants. Carmen, who throughout the morning had been everywhere, bubbling with enthusiasm, now appeared at the church door. As she entered the musty, ill-smelling old building she hesitated on the threshold, her childish face screwed into an expression of disgust.

"Come in, little one; I need your inspiration," called Josè cheerily.

The child approached, and slipped her hand into his. "Padre Rosendo says this is God's house," she commented, looking up at Josè. "He says you are going to talk about God here--in this dirty, smelly old place! Why don't you talk about Him out of doors?"

Josè was becoming innured to the embarrassment which her direct questions occasioned. And he was learning not to dissemble in his replies.

"It is because the people want to come here, dear one; it is their custom."

Would the people believe that the wafer and wine could be changed into the flesh and blood of Jesus elsewhere--even in Nature's temple?

"But I don't want to come here!" she asseverated.

"That was a naughty thing to say to the good Cura, child!" interposed Don Mario, who had overheard the girl's remark. "You see, Padre, how we need a Cura here to save these children; otherwise the Church is going to lose them. They are running pretty wild, and especially this one. She is already dedicated to the Church; but she will have to learn to speak more reverently of holy things if she expects to become a good Sister."

The child looked uncomprehendingly from, one to the other.

"Who dedicated her to the Church?" demanded Josè sharply.

"Oh, Padre Diego, at her baptism, when she was a baby," replied Don Mario in a matter of fact tone.

Josè shuddered at the thought of that unholy man's loathsome hands resting upon the innocent girl. But he made no immediate reply. Of all things, he knew that the guarding of his own tongue was now most important. But his thought was busy with Rosendo's burning words of the preceding day, and with his own solemn vow. He reflected on his present paradoxical, hazardous position; on the tremendous problem which here confronted him; and on his desperate need of wisdom--yea, superhuman wisdom--to ward off from this child the net which he knew the subtlety and cruel cunning of shrewd, unscrupulous men would some day cause to be cast about her. A soul like hers, mirrored in a body so wondrous fair, must eventually draw the devil's most envenomed barbs.

To Josè's great relief Don Mario turned immediately from the present topic to one relating to the work of renovation. Finding a pretext for sending Carmen back to the house, the priest gave his attention unreservedly to the Alcalde. But his mind ceased not to revolve the implications in Don Mario's words relative to the girl; and when the midday siesta came upon him his brow was knotted and his eyes gazed vacantly at the manifestations of activity about him.

Hurrying across the road to escape the scalding heat, Josè's ears again caught the sound of singing, issuing evidently from Rosendo's house. It was very like the clear, sweet voice which had floated into his room the morning after he awoke from his delirium. He approached the door reverently and looked in. Carmen was arranging the few poor dishes upon the rough table, and as she worked, her soul flowed across her lips in song.

The man listened astonished. The words and the simple melody which carried them were evidently an improvisation. But the voice--did that issue from a human throat? Yes, for in distant Spain and far-off Rome, in great cathedrals and concert halls, he had sometimes listened entranced to voices like this--stronger, and delicately trained, but reared upon even less of primitive talent.

The girl caught sight of him; and the song died on the warm air.

The priest strode toward her and clasped her in his arms. "Carmen, child! Who taught you to sing like that?"

The girl smiled up in his face. "God, Padre."

Of course! He should have known. And in future he need never ask.

"And I suppose He tells you when to sing, too, as He does Cantar-las-horas?" said Josè, smiling in amusement.

"No, Padre," was the unaffected answer. "He just sings Himself in me."

The man felt rebuked for his light remark; and a lump rose in his throat. He looked again into her fair face with a deep yearning.

Oh, ye of little faith! Did you but know--could you but realize--that the kingdom of heaven is within you, would not celestial melody flow from your lips, too?

Throughout the afternoon, while he labored with his willing helpers in the church building and his homely cottage, the child's song lingered in his brain, like the memory of a sweet perfume. His eyes followed her lithe, graceful form as she flitted about, and his mind was busy devising pretexts for keeping her near him. At times she would steal up close to him and put her little hand lovingly and confidingly into his own. Then as he looked down into her upturned face, wreathed with smiles of happiness, his breath would catch, and he would turn hurriedly away, that she might not see the tears which suffused his eyes.

When night crept down, unheralded, from the Sierras, the priest's house stood ready for its occupant. Cantar-las-horas had dedicated it by singing the Angelus at the front door, for the hour of six had overtaken him as he stood, with cocked head, peering curiously within. The dwelling, though pitifully bare, was nevertheless as clean as these humble folk with the primitive means at their command could render it. Instead of the customary hard macana palm strips for the bed, Rosendo had thoughtfully substituted a large piece of tough white canvas, fastened to a rectangular frame, which rested on posts well above the damp floor. On this lay a white sheet and a light blanket of red flannel. Rosendo had insisted that, for the present, Josè should take his meals with him. The priest's domestic arrangements, therefore, would be simple in the extreme; and Doña Maria quietly announced that these were in her charge. The church edifice would not be in order for some days yet, perhaps a week. But of this Josè was secretly glad, for he regarded with dread the necessity of discharging the priestly functions. And yet, upon that hinged his stay in Simití.

"Simití has two churches, you know, Padre," remarked Rosendo during the evening meal. "There is another old one near the eastern edge of town. If you wish, we can visit it while there is yet light."

Josè expressed his pleasure; and a few minutes later the two men, with Carmen dancing along happily beside them, were climbing the shaly eminence upon the summit of which stood the second church. On the way they passed the town cemetery.

"The Spanish cemetery never grows," commented Josè, stopping at the crumbling gateway and peering in. The place of sepulture was the epitome of utter desolation. A tumbled brick wall surrounded it, and there were a few broken brick vaults, in some of which whitening bones were visible. In a far corner was a heap of human bones and bits of decayed coffins.

"Their rent fell due, Padre," said Rosendo with a little laugh, indicating the bones. "The Church rents this ground to the people--it is consecrated, you know. And if the payments are not made, why, the bones come up and are thrown over there."

"Humph!" grunted Josè. "Worse than heathenish!"

"But you see, Padre, the Church is only concerned with souls. And it is better to pay the money to get souls out of purgatory than to rent a bit of ground for the body, is it not?"

Josè wisely vouchsafed no answer.

"Come, Padre," continued Rosendo. "I would not want to have to spend the night here. For, you know, if a man spends a night in a cemetery an evil spirit settles upon him--is it not so?"

Josè still kept silence before the old man's inbred superstition. A few minutes later they stood before the old church. It was in the Spanish mission style, but smaller than the one in the central plaza.

"This was built in the time of your great-grandfather, Padre, the father of Don Ignacio," offered Rosendo. "The Rincón family had many powerful enemies throughout the country, and those in Simití even carried their ill feeling so far as to refuse to hear Mass in the church which your family built. So they erected this one. No one ever enters it now. Strange noises are sometimes heard inside, and the people are afraid to go in. You see there are no houses built near it. They say an angel of the devil lives here and thrashes around at times in terrible anger. There is a story that many years ago, when I was but a baby, the devil's angel came and entered this church one dark night, when there was a terrible storm and the waves of the lake were so strong that they tossed the crocodiles far up on the shore. And when the bad angel saw the candles burning on the altar before the sacred wafer he roared in anger and blew them out. But there was a beautiful painting of the Virgin on the wall, and when the lights went out she came down out of her picture and lighted the candles again. But the devil's angel blew them out once more. And then, they say, the Holy Virgin left the church in darkness and went out and locked the wicked angel in, where he has been ever since. That was to show her displeasure against the enemies of the great Rincóns for erecting this church. The Cura died suddenly that night; and the church has never been used since The Virgin, you know, is the special guardian Saint of the Rincón family."

"But you do not believe the story, Rosendo?" Josè asked.

"Quien sabe?" was the noncommittal reply.

"Do you really think the Virgin could or would do such a thing, Rosendo?"

"Why not, Padre? She has the same power as God, has she not? The frame which held her picture"--reverting again to the story--"was found out in front of the church the next morning; but the picture itself was gone."

Josè glanced down at Carmen, who had been listening with a tense, rapt expression on her face. What impression did this strange story make upon her? She looked up at the priest with a little laugh.

"Let us go in, Padre," she said.

"No!" commanded Rosendo, seizing her hand.

"Are you afraid, Rosendo?" queried the amused Josè.

"I--I would--rather not," the old man replied hesitatingly. "The Virgin has sealed it." Physical danger was temperamental to this noble son of the jungle; yet the religious superstition which Spain had bequeathed to this oppressed land still shackled his limbs.

As they descended the hill Carmen seized an opportunity to speak to Josè alone. "Some day, Padre," she whispered, "you and I will open the door and let the bad angel out, won't we?"

Josè pressed her little hand. He knew that the door of his own mind had swung wide at her bidding in these few days, and many a bad angel had gone out forever.

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Chapter 6

The dawn of a new day broke white and glistering upon the ancient pueblo. From their hard beds of palm, and their straw mats on the dirt floors, the provincial dwellers in this abandoned treasure house of Old Spain rose already dressed to resume the monotonous routine of their lowly life. The duties which confronted them were few, scarce extending beyond the procurement of their simple food. And for all, excepting the two or three families which constituted the shabby aristocracy of Simití, this was limited in the extreme. Indian corn, panela, and coffee, with an occasional addition of platanos or rice, and now and then bits of bagre, the coarse fish yielded by the adjacent lake, constituted the staple diet of the average citizen of this decayed hamlet. A few might purchase a bit of lard at rare intervals; and this they hoarded like precious jewels. Some occasionally had wheat flour; but the long, difficult transportation, and its rapid deterioration in that hot, moist climate, where swarms of voracious insects burrow into everything not cased in tin or iron, made its cost all but prohibitive. A few had goats and chickens. Some possessed pigs. And the latter even exceeded in value the black, naked babes that played in the hot dust of the streets with them.

Josè was up at dawn. Standing in the warm, unadulterated sunlight in his doorway he watched the village awaken. At a door across the plaza a woman appeared, smoking a cigar, with the lighted end in her mouth. Josè viewed with astonishment this curious custom which prevails in the Tierra Caliente. He had observed that in Simití nearly everybody of both sexes was addicted to the use of tobacco, and it was no uncommon sight to see children of tender age smoking heavy, black cigars with keen enjoyment. From another door issued two fishermen, who, seeing the priest, approached and asked his blessing on their day's work. Some moments later he heard a loud tattoo, and soon the Alcalde of the village appeared, marching pompously through the streets, preceded by his tall, black secretary, who was beating lustily upon a small drum. At each street intersection the little procession halted, while the Alcalde with great impressiveness sonorously read a proclamation just received from the central Government at Bogotá to the effect that thereafter no cattle might be killed in the country without the payment of a tax as therein set forth. Groups of peones gathered slowly about the few little stores in the main street, or entered and inspected for the thousandth time the shabby stocks. Matrons with black, shining faces cheerily greeted one another from their doorways. Everywhere prevailed a gentle decorum of speech and manners. For, however lowly the station, however pinched the environment, the dwellers in this ancient town were ever gentle, courteous and dignified. Their conversation dealt with the simple affairs of their quiet life. They knew nothing of the complex problems, social, economic, or religious, which harassed their brethren of the North. No dubious aspirations or ambitions stirred their breasts. Nothing of the frenzied greed and lust of material accumulation touched their child-like minds. They dwelt upon a plane far, far removed, in whatever direction, from the mental state of their educated and civilized brothers of the great States, who from time to time undertake to advise them how to live, while ruthlessly exploiting them for material gain. And thus they have been exploited ever since the heavy hand of the Spaniard was laid upon them, four centuries ago. Thus they will continue to be, until that distant day when mankind shall have learned to find their own in another's good.

As his eyes swept his environment, the untutored folk, the old church, the dismally decrepit mud houses, with an air of desolation and utter abandon brooding over all; and as he reflected that his own complex nature, rather than any special malice of fortune, had brought this to him, Josè's heart began to sink under the sting of a condemning conscience. He turned back into his house. Its pitiful emptiness smote him sore. No books, no pictures, no furnishings, nothing that ministers to the comfort of a civilized and educated man! And yet, amid this barrenness he had resolved to live.

A song drifted to him through the pulsing heat of the morning air. It sifted through the mud walls of his poor dwelling, and poured into the open doorway, where it hovered, quivering, like the dust motes in the sunbeams. Instantly the man righted himself. It was Carmen, the child to whom his life now belonged. Resolutely he again set his wandering mind toward the great thing he would accomplish--the protection and training of this girl, even while, if might be, he found his life again in hers. Nothing on earth should shake him from that purpose! Doubt and uncertainty were powerless to dull the edge of his efforts. His bridges were burned behind him; and on the other side of the great gulf lay the dead self which he had abandoned forever.

A harsh medley of loud, angry growls, interspersed with shrill yelps, suddenly arose before his house, and Josè hastened to the door just in time to see Carmen rush into the street and fearlessly throw herself upon two fighting dogs.

"Cucumbra! Stop it instantly!" she exclaimed, dragging the angry brute from a thoroughly frightened puppy.

"Shame! shame! And after all I've talked to you about loving that puppy!"

The gaunt animal slunk down, with its tail between its legs.

"Did you ever gain anything at all by fighting? You know you never did! And right down in your heart you know you love that puppy. You've got to love him; you can't help it! And you might as well begin right now."

The beast whimpered at her little bare feet.

"Cucumbra, you let bad thoughts use you, didn't you? Yes, you did; and you're sorry for it now. Well, there's the puppy," pointing to the little dog, which stood hesitant some yards away. "Now go and play with him," she urged. "Play with him!" rousing the larger dog and pointing toward the puppy. "Play with him! You know you love him!"

Cucumbra hesitated, looking alternately at the small, resolute girl and the smaller dog. Her arm remained rigidly extended, and determination was written large in her set features. The puppy uttered a sharp bark, as if in forgiveness, and began to scamper playfully about. Cucumbra threw a final glance at the girl.

"Play with him!" she again commanded.

The large dog bounded after the puppy, and together they disappeared around the street corner.

The child turned and saw Josè, who had regarded the scene in mute astonishment.

"Muy buenos dias, Señor Padre," dropping a little courtesy. "But isn't Cucumbra foolish to have bad thoughts?"

"Why, yes--he certainly is," replied Josè slowly, hard pressed by the unusual question.

"He has just got to love that puppy, or else he will never be happy, will he, Padre?"

Why would this girl persist in ending her statements with an interrogation! How could he know whether Cucumbra's happiness would be imperfect if he failed in love toward the puppy?

"Because, you know, Padre," the child continued, coming up to him and slipping her hand into his, "padre Rosendo once told me that God was Love; and after that I knew we just had to love everything and everybody, or else He can't see us--can He, Padre?"

He can't see us--if we don't love everything and everybody! Well! Josè wondered what sort of interpretation the Vatican, with its fiery hatred of heretics, would put upon this remark.

"Can He, Padre?" insisted the girl.

"Dear child, in these matters you are teaching me; not I you," replied the noncommittal priest.

"But, Padre, you are going to teach the people in the church," the girl ventured quizzically.

Ah, so he was! And he had wondered what. In his hour of need the answer was vouchsafed him.

"Yes, dearest child--and I am going to teach them what I learn from you."

Carmen regarded him for a moment uncertainly. "But, padre Rosendo says you are to teach me," she averred.

"And so I am, little one," the priest replied; "but not one half as much as I shall learn from you."

Doña Maria's summons to breakfast interrupted the conversation. Throughout the repast Josè felt himself subjected to the closest scrutiny by Carmen. What was running through her thought, he could only vaguely surmise. But he instinctively felt that he was being weighed and appraised by this strange child, and that she was finding him wanting in her estimate of what manner of man a priest of God ought to be. And yet he knew that she embraced him in her great love. Oftentimes his quick glance at her would find her serious gaze bent upon him. But whenever their eyes met, her sweet face would instantly relax and glow with a smile of tenderest love--a love which, he felt, was somehow, in some way, destined to reconstruct his shattered life.

Josè's plans for educating the girl had gradually evolved into completion during the past two days. He explained them at length to Rosendo after the morning meal; and the latter, with dilating eyes, manifested his great joy by clasping the priest in his brawny arms.

"But remember, Rosendo," Josè said, "learning is not knowing. I can only teach her book-knowledge. But even now, an untutored child, she knows more that is real than I do."

"Ah, Padre, have I not told you many times that she is not like us? And now you know it!" exclaimed the emotional Rosendo, his eyes suffused with tears of joy as he beheld his cherished ideals and his longing of years at last at the point of realization. What he, too, had instinctively seen in the child was now to be summoned forth; and the vague, half-understood motive which had impelled him to take the abandoned babe from Badillo into the shelter of his own great heart would at length be revealed. The man's joy was ecstatic. With a final clasp of the priest's hand, he rushed from the house to plunge into the work in progress at the church.

Josè summoned Carmen into the quiet of his own dwelling. She came joyfully, bringing an ancient and obsolete arithmetic and a much tattered book, which Josè discovered to be a chronicle of the heroic deeds of the early Conquistadores.

"I'm through decimals!" she exclaimed with glistening eyes; "and I've read some of this, but I don't like it," making a little moue of disgust and holding aloft the battered history.

"Padre Rosendo told me to show it to you," she continued. "But it is all about murder, you know. And yet," with a little sigh, "he has nothing else to read, excepting old newspapers which the steamers sometimes leave at Bodega Central. And they are all about murder, and stealing, and bad things, too. Padre, why don't people write about good things?"

Josè gazed at her reverently, as of old the sculptor Phidias might have stood in awe before the vision which he saw in the unchiseled marble.

"Padre Rosendo helped me with the fractions," went on the girl, flitting lightly to another topic; "but I had to learn the decimals myself. He couldn't understand them. And they are so easy, aren't they? I just love arithmetic!" hugging the old book to her little bosom.

Both volumes, printed in Madrid, were reliques of Spanish colonial days.

"Read to me, Carmen," said Josè, handing her the history.

The child took the book and began to read, with clear enunciation, the narrative of Quesada's sanguinary expedition to Bogotá, undertaken in the name of the gentle Christ. Josè wondered as he listened what interpretation this fresh young mind would put upon the motives of that renowned exploit. Suddenly she snapped the book shut.

"Tell me about Jesus," she demanded.

The precipitation with which the question had been propounded almost took his breath away. He raised his eyes to hers, and looked long and wonderingly into their infinite depths. And then the vastness of the problem enunciated by her demand loomed before him. What, after all, did he know about Jesus? Had he not arrived in Simití in a state of agnosticism regarding religion? Had he not come there enveloped in confusion, baffled, beaten, hopeless? And then, after his wonderful talk with Rosendo, had he not agreed with him that the child's thought must be kept free and open--that her own instinctive religious ideas must be allowed to develop normally, unhampered and unfettered by the external warp and bias of human speculation? It was part of his plan that all reference to matters theological should be omitted from Carmen's educational scheme. Yet here was that name on her lips--the first time he had ever heard it voiced by her. And it smote him like a hammer. He made haste to divert further inquiry.

"Not now, little one," he said hastily. "I want to hear you read more from your book."

"No," she replied firmly, laying the volume upon the table. "I don't like it; and I shouldn't think you would, either. Besides, it isn't true; it never really happened."

"Why, of course it is true, child! It is history, the story of how the brave Spaniards came into this country long ago. We will read a great deal more about them later."

"No," with a decisive shake of her brown head; "not if it is like this. It isn't true; I told padre Rosendo it wasn't."

"Well, what do you mean, child?" asked the uncomprehending priest.

"It is only a lot of bad thoughts printed in a book," she replied slowly. "And it isn't true, because God is everywhere."

Clearly the man was encountering difficulties at the outset; and a part, at least, of his well-ordered curriculum stood in grave danger of repudiation at the hands of this earnest little maid.

The girl stood looking at him wistfully. Then her sober little face melted in smiles. With childish impulsiveness she clambered into his lap, and twining her arms about his neck, impressed a kiss upon his cheek.

"I love you, Padre," she murmured; "and you love me, don't you?"

He pressed her to him, startled though he was. "God knows I do, little one!" he exclaimed.

"Of course He does," she eagerly agreed; "and He knows you don't want to teach me anything that isn't true, doesn't He, Padre dear?"

Yea, and more; for Josè was realizing now, what he had not seen before, that it was beyond his power to teach her that which was not true. The magnitude and sacredness of his task impressed him as never before. His puzzled brain grappled feebly with the enormous problem. She had rebuked him for trying to teach her things which, if he accepted the immanence of God as fact, her logic had shown him were utterly false. Clearly the grooves in which this child's pure thought ran were not his own. And if she would not think as he did, what recourse was there left him but to accept the alternative and think with her? For he would not, even if he could, force upon her his own thought-processes.

"Then, Carmen," he finally ventured, "you do not wish to learn about people and what they have done and are doing in the big world about you?"

"Oh, yes, Padre; tell me all about the good things they did!"

"But they did many wicked things too, chiquita. And the good and the bad are all mixed up together."

"No," she shook her head vigorously; "there isn't any bad. There is only good, for God is everywhere--isn't He?"

She raised up and looked squarely into the priest's eyes. Dissimulation, hypocrisy, quibble, cant--nothing but fearless truth could meet that gaze.

Suddenly a light broke in upon his clouded thought. This girl--this tender plant of God--why, she had shown it from the very beginning! And he, oh, blind that he was! he could not see nor accept it. The secret of her power, of her ecstasy of life--what was it but this?--she knew no evil!

And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, "Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat: but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die."

Oh, great God! It was the first--the very first--lesson which Thou didst teach Thy child, Israel, as the curtain rose upon the drama of human life! And the awful warning has rung down through the corridors of time from the mouths of the prophets, whom we slew lest they wake us from our mesmeric sleep! Israel forgot Thy words; and the world has forgotten them, long, long since. Daily we mix our perfumed draft of good and evil, and sink under its lethal influence! Hourly we eat of the forbidden tree, till the pangs of death encompass us!

And when at last the dark angel hovered over the sin-stricken earth and claimed it for his own, the great Master came to sound again the warning--"As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he!" But they would have none of him, and nailed him to a tree!

Oh, Jerusalem! Oh, ye incarnate human mind! Even the unique Son of God wept as he looked with yearning upon you! Why? Because of your stubborn clinging to false ways, false beliefs, false thoughts of God and man! Because ye would not be healed; ye would not be made whole! Ye loved evil--ye gave it life and power, and ye rolled it like a sweet morsel beneath your tongue--and so ye died! So came death into this fair world, through the heart, the brain, the mind of man, who sought to know what God could not!

"Padre dear, you are so quiet." The girl nestled closer to the awed priest. Aye! And so the multitude on Sinai had stood in awed quiet as they listened to the voice of God.

This child knew no evil! The man could not grasp the infinite import of the marvelous fact. And yet he had sought to teach her falsities--to teach her that evil did exist, as real and as potent as good, and that it was to be accepted and honored by mankind! But she had turned her back upon the temptation.

"Padre, are you going to tell me about Jesus?"

The priest roused from his deep meditation.

"Yes, yes--I want to know nothing else! I will get my Bible, and we will read about him!"

"Bible? What is that, Padre dear?"

"What! You don't know what the Bible is?" cried the astonished priest.

"No, Padre."

"But have you never--has your padre Rosendo never told you that it is the book that tells--?"

"No," the girl shook her head. "But," her face kindling, "he told me that Jesus was God's only son. But we are all His children, aren't we?"

"Yes--especially you, little one! But Jesus was the greatest--"

"Did Jesus write the Bible, Padre?" the girl asked earnestly.

"No--we don't know who did. People used to think God wrote it; but I guess He didn't."

"Then we will not read it, Padre."

The man bent reverently over the little brown head and prayed again for guidance. What could he do with this child, who dwelt with Jehovah--who saw His reflection in every flower and hill and fleecy cloud--who heard His voice in the sough of the wind, and the ripple of the waters on the pebbly shore! And, oh, that some one had bent over him and prayed for guidance when he was a tender lad and his heart burned with yearning for truth!

"God wrote the arithmetic--I mean, He told people how to write it, didn't He, Padre?"

Surely the priest could acquiesce in this, for mathematics is purely metaphysical, and without guile.

"Yes, chiquita. And we will go right through this little book. Then, if I can, I will send for others that will teach you wonderful things about what we call mathematics."

The child smiled her approval. The priest had now found the only path which she would tread with him, and he continued with enthusiasm.

"And God taught people how to talk, little one; but they don't all talk as we do. There is a great land up north of us, which we call the United States, and there the people would not understand us, for we speak Spanish. I must teach you their language, chiquita, and I must teach you others, too, for you will not always live in Simití."

"I want to stay here always, Padre. I love Simití." "No, Carmen; God has work for you out in His big world. You have something to tell His people some day, a message for them. But you and I have much work to do here first. And so we will begin with the arithmetic and English. Later we will study other languages, and we will talk them to each other until you speak them as fluently as your own. And meanwhile, I will tell you about the great countries of the world, and about the people that live in them. And we will study about the stars, and the rocks, and the animals; and we will read and work and read and work all day long, every day!" The priest's face was aglow with animation.

"But, Padre, when shall I have time to think?"

"Why, you will be thinking all the time, child!"

"No, you don't understand. I have to think about other things."

Josè looked at her with a puzzled expression. "What other things do you have to think about, chiquita?"

"About all the people here who are sick and unhappy, and who quarrel and don't love one another."

"Do you think about people when they are sick?" he asked with heightened curiosity.

"Yes, always!" she replied vigorously "When they are sick I go where nobody can find me and then just think that it isn't so."

"Hombre!" the priest ejaculated, his astonishment soaring Then--

"But when people are sick it is really so, isn't it, chiquita?"

"No!" emphatically. "It can't be--not if God is everywhere. Does He make them sick?" The child drove the heart-searching question straight into him.

"Why--no, I can't say that He does. And yet they somehow get sick."

"Because they think bad things, Padre. Because they don't think about God. They don't think He is here. And they don't care about Him--they don't love Him. And so they get sick," she explained succinctly.

Josè's mind reverted to what Rosendo had told him. When he lay tossing in delirium Carmen had said that he would not die. And yet that was perfectly logical, if she refused to admit the existence of evil.

"I thought lots about you last week, Padre."

The soft voice was close to his ear, and every breath swept over his heartstrings and made them vibrate.

"Every night when I went to sleep I told God I knew He would cure you."

The priest's head sank upon his breast.

Verily, I have not seen such faith, no, not in Israel! And the faith of this child had glorified her vision until she saw "the heavens open and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man."

"Carmen"--the priest spoke reverently--"do the sick ones always get well when you think about them?"

There was not a shade of euphemism in the unhesitating reply--

"They are never really sick, Padre."

"But, by that you mean--"

"They only have bad thoughts."

"Sick thoughts, then?" he suggested by way of drawing out her full meaning.

"Yes, Padre--for God, you know, really is everywhere."

"Carmen!" cried the man. "What put such ideas into your little head? Who told you these things?"

Her brown eyes looked full into his own. "God, Padre dear."

God! Yes, of a verity she spoke truth. For nothing but her constant communion with Him could have filled her pure thought with a deeper, truer lore than man has ever quaffed at the world's great fountains of learning. He himself, trained by Holy Church, deeply versed in letters, science, and theology, grounded in all human learning, sat in humility at her feet, drinking in what his heart told him he had at length found--Truth.

He had one more question to ask. "Carmen, how do you know, how are you sure, that He told you?"

"Because it is true, Padre."

"But just how do you know that it is true?" he insisted.

"Why--it comes out that way; just like the answers to the problems in arithmetic. I used to try to see if by thinking only good thoughts to-day I would be better and happier to-morrow."

"Yes, and--?"

"Well, I always was, Padre. And so now I don't think anything but good thoughts."

"That is, you think only about God?"

"I always think about Him first, Padre."

He had no further need to question her proofs, for he knew she was taught by the Master himself.

"That will be all for this morning, Carmen," he said quietly, as he put her down. "Leave me now. I, too, have some thinking to do."

When Carmen left him, Josè lapsed into profound meditation. Musing over his life experiences, he at last summed them all up in the vain attempt to evolve an acceptable concept of God, an idea of Him that would satisfy. He had felt that in Christianity he had hold of something beneficent, something real; but he had never been able to formulate it, nor lift it above the shadows into the clear light of full comprehension. And the result of his futile efforts to this end had been agnosticism. His inability conscientiously to accept the mad reasoning of theologians and the impudent claims of Rome had been the stumbling block to his own and his family's dearest earthly hopes. He knew that popular Christianity was a disfigurement of truth. He knew that the theological claptrap which the Church, with such oracular assurance, such indubitable certainty and gross assumption of superhuman knowledge, handed out to a suffering world, was a travesty of the divinely simple teachings of Jesus, and that it had estranged mankind from their only visible source of salvation, the Bible. He saw more clearly than ever before that in the actual achievements of popular theology there had been ridiculously little that a seriously-minded man could accept as supports to its claims to be a divinely revealed scheme of salvation. Yet there was no vital question on which certainty was so little demanded, and seemingly of so little consequence, as this, even though the joints of the theologians' armor flapped wide to the assaults of unprejudiced criticism.

But if the slate were swept clean--if current theological dogma were overthrown, and the stage set anew--what could be reared in their stead? Is it true that the Bible is based upon propositions which can be verified by all? The explorer in Cartagena had given Josè a new thought in Arnold's concept of God as "the Eternal, not ourselves, that makes for righteousness." And it was not to be denied that, from first to last, the Bible is a call to righteousness.

But what is righteousness? Ethical conduct? Assuredly something vastly more profound, for even that "misses the mark." No, righteousness was right conduct until the marvelous Jesus appeared. But he swept it at once from the material into the mental; from the outward into the inward; and defined it as right-thinking!

"Righteousness!" murmured Josè, sitting with head buried in his hands. "Aye, the whole scheme of salvation is held in that one word! And the wreck of my life has been caused by my blind ignorance of its tremendous meaning! For righteousness is salvation. But Carmen, wise little soul, divined it instinctively; for, if there is one thing that is patent, it is that if a thing is evil it does not exist for her. Righteousness! Of course it means thinking no evil! Jesus lived his thorough understanding of it. And so does Carmen. And so would the world, but for the withering influence of priestly authority!"

At that moment Carmen reappeared to summon him to lunch.

"Come here, little girl," said Josè, drawing her to him. "You asked me to tell you about Jesus. He was the greatest and best man that ever lived. And it was because he never had a bad thought."

"Did he know that God was everywhere?" The little face turned lovingly up to his.

"He did, sweet child. And so do I--now; for I have found Him even in desolate Simití."

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Chapter 7

Carmen's studies began in earnest that afternoon. In the quiet of his humble cottage Josè, now "a prisoner of the Lord," opened the door of his mental storehouse and carefully selected those first bits of knowledge for the foundation stones on which to rear for her, little by little, a broad education.

He found her a facile learner; her thorough ease in the rudiments of arithmetic and in the handling of her own language delighted him. His plan of tutelage, although the result of long contemplation, and involving many radical ideas regarding the training of children, ideas which had been slowly developing in his mind for years, he nevertheless felt in her case to be tentative. For he was dealing with no ordinary child; and so the usual methods of instruction were here wholly out of the question.

But on several points he was already firmly resolved. First, he would get well below the surface of this child's mind, and he would endeavor to train her to live in a depth of thought far, far beneath the froth and superficiality of the every-day thinking of mankind. Fortunately, she had had no previous bad training to be counteracted now. Nature had been her only tutor; and Rosendo's canny wisdom had kept out all human interference. Her associates in Simití were few. Her unusual and mature thought had set up an intellectual barrier between herself and the playmates she might have had. Fortunately, too, Josè had now to deal with a child who all her life had thought vigorously--and, he was forced to conclude, correctly. Habits of accurate observation and quick and correct interpretation would not be difficult to form in such a mind. Moreover, to this end he would aim to maintain her interest at the point of intensity in every subject undertaken; yet without forcing, and without sacrifice of the joys of childhood. He would be, not teacher only, but fellow-student. He would strive to learn with her to conceive the ideal without losing sight of the fact that it was a human world in which they dwelt. When she wished to play, he would play with her. But he would contrive and direct their amusements so as to carry instruction, to elucidate and exemplify it, to point morals, and steadily to contribute to her store of knowledge. His plan was ideal, he knew. But he could not know then that Nature--if we may thus call it--had anticipated him, and that the child, long since started upon the quest for truth, would quickly outstrip him in the matter of conceiving the ideal and living in this world of relative fact with an eye single to the truth which shines so dimly through it.

Josè knew, as he studied Carmen and planned her training, that whatever instruction he offered her must be without taint of evil, so far as he might prevent. And yet, the thought of any attempt to withhold from her a knowledge of evil brought a sardonic smile to his lips. She had as yet everything to learn of the world about her. Could such learning be imparted to her free from error or hypothesis, and apart from the fiat of the speculative human mind? It must be; for he knew from experience that she would accept his teaching only as he presented every apparent fact, every object, every event, as a reflection in some degree of her immanent God, and subject to rigid demonstration. Where historical events externalized only the evil motives of the carnal mind, he must contrive to omit them entirely, or else present them as unreality, the result of "bad thoughts" and forgetfulness of God. In other words, only as he assumed to be the channel through which God spoke to her could he hope for success. To impart to her a knowledge of both good and evil was, at least at present, impossible. To force it upon her later would be criminal. Moreover, why not try the audacious experiment of permitting and aiding this child to grow up without a knowledge of evil?--that is, in her present conviction that only good is real, potent and permanent, while evil is impotent illusion and to be met and overcome on that basis. Would the resultant training make of her a tower of strength--or would it render her incapable of resisting the onslaughts of evil when at length she faced the world? His own heart sanctioned the plan; and--well, the final judgment should be left to Carmen herself.

The work proceeded joyously. At times Cucumbra interrupted by bounding in, as if impatient of the attention his little mistress was giving her tutor. Frequently the inquisitive Cantar-las-horas stalked through the room, displaying a most dignified and laudable interest in the proceedings. Late in the afternoon, when the sun was low, Bosendo appeared at the door. As he stood listening to Josè's narrative of men and places in the outside world, his eyes bulged. At length his untutored mind became strained to its elastic limit.

"Is that true, Padre?" he could not refrain from interrupting, when Josè had spoken of the fast trains of England. "Why, the Simití trail to Tachí is one hundred and fifty miles long; and it always took me six days to walk it. And do you say there are trains that travel that distance in as many hours?"

"There are trains, Rosendo, that traverse the distance in three hours."

"Na, Padre, it can't be done!" cried the incredulous Rosendo, shaking his head.

"Leave us, unbeliever!" laughed Josè, motioning him away. "I have more pliable material here to handle than you."

But Rosendo remained; and it was evident to the priest that he had come on an errand of importance. Moreover, the supper hour was at hand, and perhaps Doña Maria needed Carmen's help. So, dismissing the child, Josè turned to Rosendo.

"You were right," he began, as if taking up the thread of a broken discourse. "Carmen was left on the river bank by the angels."

"Then you do think it was a miracle!" said Rosendo in a voice of awe, as he sank into a chair.

The priest smiled. "Everything is a miracle, friend; for a miracle is simply a sign of God's presence. And finding Carmen in this musty, forgotten place is one of the greatest. For where she is, He is."

"Yes, Padre, that is true," assented Rosendo gravely.

"I was led here," continued Josè; "I see it now. Rosendo, all my life I have regarded evil as just as real and powerful as good. And my life has been one of bitterness and woe. Carmen sees only the good God everywhere. And she dwells in heaven. What is the logical inference? Simply that my mental attitude has been all wrong, my views erroneous, my thinking bad. I have tried to know both good and evil, to eat of the forbidden tree. And for so doing I was banished from paradise. Do you understand me?"

"Why--well, no, Padre--that is, I--" The honest fellow was becoming confused.

"Well, just this, then," explained the priest with animation. "I haven't gotten anywhere in life, and neither have you, because we have limited ourselves and crippled our efforts by yielding to fear, pride, ignorance, and the belief in evil as a real power opposed to good."

"I have often wondered myself, Padre, how there could be a devil if God is almighty. For in that case He would have had to make the devil, wouldn't He?"

"Just so!" cried Josè enthusiastically. "And as He did make everything, then either He made the devil, or else there isn't any."

"But that is pretty hard to see, Padre," replied the puzzled Rosendo. "Something makes us do wicked things."

"Simply the belief that there is a power apart from God."

"But doesn't that belief come from the devil?"

"Surely--the devil of imagination! Listen, Rosendo: Carmen is daily putting into practice her instinctive knowledge of a mighty fact. She will reveal it all to us in due time. Let us patiently watch her, and try to see and understand and believe as she does. But in the meantime, let us guard our minds as we would a treasure house, and strive never to let a thought of evil get inside! My past life should serve as a perpetual warning."

Rosendo did not reply at once, but sat staring vacantly at the ground. Josè knew that his thoughts were with his wayward daughter. Then, as if suddenly remembering the object of his call, he took from his wallet two letters, which he handed to Josè with the comment: "Juan brought them up from Bodega Central this morning."

Josè took them with quickening pulse. One was from Spain, from his uncle. He devoured it eagerly. It was six weeks old when it arrived in Simití, and had been written before the news of his removal from Cartagena had reached Seville. His mother was well; and her hopes for her son's preferment were steadily reviving, after the cruel blow which his disgrace in Rome had given them. For his uncle's part, he hoped that Josè had now seen the futility of opposition to Holy Church, and that, yielding humbly to her gentle chastisement for the great injury he had inflicted upon her, he would now make amends and merit the favors which she was sure to bestow upon him in due season. To this end the uncle would bring to bear his own influence and that of His Eminence, the Archbishop of Seville. The letter closed with an invocation to the Saints and the ever-blessed Virgin.

Josè opened the second letter. It was nominally from the Bishop of Cartagena, although written, he well knew, by Wenceslas. His Reverence regretted that Josè had not come to him again before leaving Cartagena. He deplored exceedingly the necessity of assigning him to so lowly a parish; but it was discipline. His tenure of the parish would be a matter of probation. Assuming a penitent desire on the part of the priest to make reparation for past indiscretions, His Grace extended assurances of his support and tender consideration. And, regarding him still as a faithful son, he was setting forth herewith certain instructions which Josè would zealously carry out, to the glory of the sacred Mother Church and the blessed Virgin, and to his own edification, to wit: In the matter of the confessional he must be unremittingly zealous, not failing to put such questions to the people of Simití as would draw out their most secret thoughts. In the present crisis it was especially necessary to learn their political views. Likewise, he must not fail to impress upon them the sin of concealing wealth, and of withholding contributions to the support of the glorious Mother. He, as priest of the parish, would be held personally responsible for the collection of an adequate "Peter's Pence," which must be sent to Cartagena at frequent intervals for subsequent shipment to Rome. For all contributions he was to allow liberal plenary indulgences. In the matter of inciting zeal for the salvation of those unfortunate souls lingering in the torments of purgatory, Josè must be unflagging. Each family in the parish should be constantly admonished and threatened, if necessary, to have Masses said for their deceased members; and he must forward the proceeds from such Masses at once to Cartagena. No less important, he must keep constantly before him the great fact that the hope of the blessed Mother lay in her young. To this end he must see that all children in his parish were in due time confirmed, and every effort made to have the females sent to the convent of Mompox. To encourage his parishioners, he might assure them of His Reverence's tender regard for them as his beloved children, and that he had certain special favors to grant to them in due time. Also, that a statue of the Virgin, which had arrived from Rome, and which carried the most potent blessing of the Holy Father, was to be bestowed upon that church in the diocese which within the next twelve months should contribute the largest amount of Peter's Pence in proportion to population. This plan should be especially attractive to the people of Simití, as the town lay on the confines of a district renowned in the ancient annals for its mineral wealth. Herein, too, lay a great opportunity for the priest; and His Reverence rejoiced in the certain knowledge that he would embrace it. Invoking the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Ever-Blessed Virgin and Saint Joseph, His Grace awaited with interest the priest's first report from the parish of Simití.

The letter fell like a wet blanket upon Josè, chilling him to the marrow, for it revived with cruel poignancy the fact that he was still a servant of Rome. In the past few happy days he had dwelt apart from the world in the consciousness of a new heaven and a new earth, revealed by Carmen. This sudden call to duty was like a summons from Mephistopheles to the fulfillment of a forgotten pact.

He carefully read the letter again. Beneath the specious kindliness of Wenceslas lay sinister motives, he knew. Among them, greed, of course. But--a darker thought--did Wenceslas know of Carmen's existence? Could Cartagena have received any intimation of his plans for her? Refusal to comply with these instructions meant--he dared not think what! On the other hand, strict compliance with them certainly was out of the question.

As for Peter's Pence, what could the impoverished folk of this decrepit town furnish! And yet, if a reasonable sum could only be contributed at frequent intervals, would not the vampire Wenceslas rest content, at least for a while? Oh, for a fortune of his own, that he might dump it all into the yawning maw of Holy Church, and thus gain a few years' respite for himself and Carmen!

"Bad news, Padre?" Rosendo inquired, anxiously regarding the priest's strained features.

What could the man do or say, limited, hounded, and without resources? Could he force these simple people to buy Masses? Could he take their money on a pretext which he felt to be utterly false? Yet Cartagena must be kept quiet at any hazard!

"Rosendo," he asked earnestly, "when you had a priest in Simití, did the people have Masses offered for their dead?"

"Na, Padre, we have little money for Masses," replied Rosendo sadly.

"But you have bought them?"

"At times--long ago--for my first wife, when she died without a priest, up in the Tiguí country. But not when Padre Diego was here. I couldn't see how Masses said by that drunken priest could please God, or make Him release souls from purgatory--and Padre Diego was drunk most of the time."

Josè became desperate. "Rosendo, we must send money to the Bishop in Cartagena. I must stay here--I must! And I can stay only by satisfying Wenceslas! If I can send him money he will think me too valuable to remove. It is not the Church, Rosendo, but Wenceslas who is persecuting me. It is he who has placed me here. He is using the Church for his own evil ends. It is he who must be placated. But I--I can't make these poor people buy Masses! And--but here, read his letter," thrusting it into Rosendo's hand.

Rosendo shook his head thoughtfully, and a cloud had gathered over his strong face when he returned the Bishop's letter to Josè.

"Padre, we will be hard pressed to support the church and you, without buying Masses. There are about two hundred people here, perhaps fifty families. But they are very, very poor. Only a few can afford to pay even a peso oro a month to the schoolmaster to have their children taught. They may be able to give twenty pesos a month to support you and the church. But hardly more."

It seemed to Josè that his soul must burst under its limitations.

"Rosendo, let us take Carmen and flee!" he cried wildly.

"How far would we get, Padre? Have you money?"

No, Josè had nothing. He lapsed into silence-shrouded despair.

The sun dropped below the wooded hills, and Cantar-las-horas had sung his weird vesper song. Dusk was thickening into night, though upon the distant Sierras a mellow glow still illumined the frosted peaks. Moments crept slowly through the enveloping silence.

Then the mental gloom parted, and through it arose the great soul of the black-faced man sitting beside the despairing priest.

"Padre"--Rosendo spoke slowly and with deep emotion. Tears trickled down his swart cheeks--"I am no longer young. More than sixty years of hardship and heavy toil rest upon me. My parents--I have not told you this--were slaves. They worked in the mines of Guamocó, under hard masters. They lived in bamboo huts, and slept on the damp ground. At four each morning, year after year, they were driven from their hard beds and sent out to toil under the lash fourteen hours a day, washing gold from the streams. The gold went to the building of Cartagena's walls, and to her Bishop, to buy idleness and luxury for him and his fat priests. When the war came it lasted thirteen years; but we drove the Christian Spaniards into the sea! Then my father and mother went back to Guamocó; and there I was born. When I was old enough to use a batea I, too, washed gold in the Tiguí, and in the little streams so numerous in that region. But they had been pretty well washed out under the Spaniards; and so my father came down here and made a little hacienda on the hills across the lake from Simití. Then he and my poor mother lay down and died, worn out with their long years of toil for their cruel masters."

He brushed the tears from his eyes; then resumed: "The district of Guamocó gradually became deserted. Revolution after revolution broke out in this unhappy country, sometimes stirred up by the priests, sometimes by political agitators who tried to get control of the Government. The men and boys went to the wars, and were killed off. Guamocó was again swallowed up by the forest--"

He stopped abruptly, and sat some moments silent.

"I have been back there many times since, and often I have washed gold again along the beautiful Tiguí," he continued. "But the awful loneliness of the jungle, and the memories of those gloomy days when I toiled there as a boy, and the thoughts of my poor parents' sufferings under the Spaniards, made me so sad that I could not stay. And then I got too old for that kind of work, standing bent over in the cold mountain water all day long, swinging a batea heavy with gravel."

He paused again, and seemed to lose himself in the memory of those dark days.

"But there is still gold in the Tiguí. I can find it. It means hard work--but I can do it. Padre, I will go back there and wash out gold for you to send to the Bishop of Cartagena, that you may stay here and protect and teach the little Carmen. Perhaps in time I can wash enough to get you both out of the country; but it will take many months, it may be, years."

O, you, whose path in life winds among pleasant places, where roses nod in the scented breeze and fountains play, picture to yourself, if you may, the self-immolation of this sweet-souled man, who, in the winter of life, the shadows of eternity fast gathering about him, bends his black shoulders again to the burden which Love would lay upon them. Aye, Love, into which all else merged--Love for the unknown babe, left helpless and alone on the great river's bank--Love for the radiant child, whose white soul the agents of carnal greed and lust would prostitute to their iniquitous system.

Night fell. By the light of their single candle the priest and Rosendo ate their simple fare in silence. Carmen was asleep, and the angels watched over her lowly bed.

The meal ended, Rosendo took up the candle, and Josè followed him into the bedroom. Reverently the two men approached the sleeping child and looked down upon her. The priest's hand again sought Rosendo's in a grasp which sealed anew the pact between them.

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Chapter 8

Like the great Exemplar in the days of his preparation, Josè was early driven by the spirit into the wilderness, where temptation smote him sore. But his soul had been saved--"yet so as by fire." Slowly old beliefs and faiths crumbled into dust, while the new remained still unrevealed. The drift toward atheism which had set in during his long incarceration in the convent of Palazzola had not made him yield to the temptation to raise the mask of hypocrisy and plunge into the pleasures of the world, nor accept the specious proffer of ecclesiastical preferment in exchange for his honest convictions. Honor, however bigoted the sense, bound him to his oath, or at least to a compromising observance of it harmless to the Church. Pride contributed to hold him from the degradation of a renegade and apostate priest. And both rested primarily on an unshaken basis of maternal affection, which fell little short of obsession, leaving him without the strength to say, "Woman, what have I to do with thee?"

But, though atheism in belief leads almost inevitably to disintegration of morals, Josè had kept himself untainted. For his vital problems he had now, after many days, found "grace sufficient." In what he had regarded as the contemptible tricks of fate, he was beginning to discern the guiding hand of a wisdom greater than the world's. The danger threatened by Cartagena was, temporarily, at least, averted by Rosendo's magnificent spirit. Under the spur of that sacrifice his own courage rose mightily to second it.

Rosendo spent the day in preparation for his journey into the Guamocó country. He had discussed with Josè, long and earnestly, its probable effect upon the people of Simití, and especially upon Don Mario, the Alcalde; but it was decided that no further explanation should be made than that he was again going to prospect in the mineral districts already so familiar to him. As Rosendo had said, this venture, together with the unannounced and unsolicited presence of the priest in the town, could not but excite extreme curiosity and raise the most lively conjectures, which might, in time, reach Wenceslas. On the other hand, if success attended his efforts, it was more than probable that Cartagena would remain quiet, as long as her itching palm was brightened with the yellow metal which he hoped to wrest from the sands of Guamocó. "It is only a chance, Padre," Rosendo said dubiously. "In the days of the Spaniards the river sands of Guamocó produced from two to ten reales a day to each slave. But the rivers have been almost washed out."

Josè made a quick mental calculation. A Spanish real was equivalent to half a franc. Then ten reales would amount to five francs, the very best he could hope for as a day's yield.

"And my supplies and the support of the señora and Carmen must come out of that," Rosendo added. "Besides, I must pay Juan for working the hacienda across the lake for me while I am away."

Possibly ten pesos oro, or forty francs, might remain at the end of each month for them to send to Cartagena. Josè sighed heavily as he busied himself with the preparations.

"I got these supplies from Don Mario on credit, Padre," explained Rosendo. "I thought best to buy from him to prevent making him angry. I have coffee, panela, rice, beans, and tobacco for a month. He was very willing to let me have them--but do you know why? He wants me to go up there and fail. Then he will have me in his debt, and I become his peon--and I would never be anything after that but his slave, for never again would he let me get out of debt to him."

Josè shuddered at the thought of the awful system of peonage prevalent in these Latin countries, an inhuman custom only a degree removed from the slavery of colonial times. This venture was, without doubt, a desperate risk. But it was for Carmen--and its expediency could not be questioned.

Josè penned a letter to the Bishop of Cartagena that morning, and sent it by Juan to Bodega Central to await the next down-river steamer. He did not know that Juan carried another letter for the Bishop, and addressed in the flowing hand of the Alcalde. Josè briefly acknowledged the Bishop's communication, and replied that he would labor unflaggingly to uplift his people and further their spiritual development. As to the Bishop's instructions, he would endeavor to make Simití's contribution to the support of Holy Church, both material and spiritual, fully commensurate with the population. He did not touch on the other instructions, but closed with fervent assurances of his intention to serve his little flock with an undivided heart. Carmen received no lesson that day, and her rapidly flowing questions anent the unusual activity in the household were met with the single explanation that her padre Rosendo had found it necessary to go up to the Tiguí river, a journey which some day she might perhaps take with him.

During the afternoon Josè wrote two more letters, one to his uncle, briefly announcing his appointment to the parish of Simití, and his already lively interest in his new field; the other to his beloved mother, in which he only hinted at the new-found hope which served as his pillow at night. He did not mention Carmen, for fear that his letter might be opened ere it left Cartagena. But in tenderest expressions of affection, and regret that he had been the unwitting cause of his mother's sorrow, he begged her to believe that his life had received a stimulus which could not but result in great happiness for them both, for he was convinced that he had at last found his métier, even though among a lowly people and in a sequestered part of the world. He hoped again to be reunited to her--possibly she might some day meet him in Cartagena. And until then he would always hold her in tenderest love and the brightest and purest thought.

He brushed aside the tears as he folded this letter; and, lest regret and self-condemnation seize him again, hurried forth in search of Carmen, whose radiance always dispelled his gloom as the rushing dawn shatters the night.

She was not in Rosendo's house, and Doña Maria said she had seen the child some time before going in the direction of the "shales." These were broad beds of rock to the south of town, much broken and deeply fissured, and so glaringly hot during most of the day as to be impassable. Thither Josè bent his steps, and at length came upon the girl sitting in the shade of a stunted algarroba tree some distance from the usual trail.

"Well, what are you doing here, little one?" he inquired in surprise.

The child looked up visibly embarrassed. "I was thinking, Padre," she made slow reply.

"But do you have to go away from home to think?" he queried.

"I wanted to be alone; and there was so much going on in the house that I came out here."

"And what have you been thinking about, Carmen?" pursued Josè, suspecting that her presence in the hot shale beds held some deeper significance than she had as yet revealed.

"I--I was just thinking that God is everywhere," she faltered.

"Yes, chiquita. And--?"

"That He is where padre Rosendo is going, and that He will take care of him up there, and bring him back to Simití again."

"And were you asking Him to do it, little one?"

"No, Padre; I was just knowing that He would."

The little lip quivered, and the brown eyes were wet with tears. But Josè could see that faith had conquered, whatever the struggle might have been. The child evidently had sought solitude, that she might most forcibly bring her trust in God to bear upon the little problem confronting her--that she might make the certainty of His immanence and goodness destroy in her thought every dark suggestion of fear or doubt.

"God will take care of him, won't He, Padre?"

Josè had taken her hand and was leading her back to the house.

"You have said it, child; and I believe you are a law unto yourself," was the priest's low, earnest reply. The child smiled up at him; and Josè knew he had spoken truth.

That evening, the preparations for departure completed, Rosendo and Josè took their chairs out before the house, where they sat late, each loath to separate lest some final word be left unsaid. The tepid evening melted into night, which died away in a deep silence that hung wraith-like over the old town. Myriad stars rained their shimmering lustre out of the unfathomable vault above.

"Un canasto de flores," mused Rosendo, looking off into the infinite blue.

"A basket of flowers, indeed," responded Josè reverently.

"Padre--" Rosendo's brain seemed to struggle with a tremendous thought--"I often try to think of what is beyond the stars; and I cannot. Where is the end?"

"There is none, Rosendo."

"But, if we could get out to the last star--what then?"

"Still no end, no limit," replied Josè.

"And they are very far away--how far, Padre?"

"You would not comprehend, even if I could tell you, Rosendo. But--how shall I say it? Some are millions of miles from us. Others so far that their light reaches us only after the lapse of centuries."

"Their light!" returned Rosendo quizzically.

"Yes. Light from those stars above us travels nearly two hundred thousand miles a second--"

"Hombre!" ejaculated the uncomprehending Rosendo.

"And yet, even at that awful rate of speed, it is probable that there are many stars whose light has not yet reached the earth since it became inhabited by men."

"Caramba!"

"You may well say so, friend."

"But, Padre--does the light never stop? When does it reach an end--a stopping-place?"

"There is no stopping-place, Rosendo. There is no solid sky above us. Go whichever way you will, you can never reach an end."

Rosendo's brow knotted with puzzled wonder: Even Josè's own mind staggered anew at its concept of the immeasurable depths of space.

"But, Padre, if we could go far enough up we would get to heaven, wouldn't we?" pursued Rosendo. "And if we went far enough down we would reach purgatory, and then hell, is it not so?"

Restraint fell upon the priest. He dared not answer lest he reveal his own paucity of ideas regarding these things. Happily the loquacious Rosendo continued without waiting for reply.

"Padre Simón used to say when I was a child that the red we saw in the sky at sunset was the reflection of the flames of hell; so I have always thought that hell was below us--perhaps in the center of the earth."

For a time his simple mind mused over this puerile idea. Then--

"What do you suppose God looks like, Padre?"

Josè's thought flew back to the galleries and chapels of Europe, where the masters have so often portrayed their ideas of God in the shape of an old, gray-haired man, partly bald, and with long, flowing beard. Alas! how pitifully crude, how lamentably impotent such childish concepts. For they saw in God only their own frailties infinitely magnified. Small wonder that they lived and died in spiritual gloom!

"Padre," Rosendo went on, "if there is no limit to the universe, then it is--"

"Infinite in extent, Rosendo," finished Josè.

"Then whoever made it is infinite, too," Rosendo added hypothetically.

"An infinite effect implies an infinite cause--yes, certainly," Josè answered.

"So, if God made the universe, He is infinite, is He not, Padre?"

"Yes."

"Then He can't be at all like us," was the logical conclusion.

Josè was thinking hard. The universe stands as something created. And scientists agree that it is infinite in extent. Its creator therefore must be infinite in extent. And as the universe continues to exist, that which called it into being, and still maintains it, must likewise continue to exist. Hence, God is.

"Padre, what holds the stars in place?" Rosendo's questions were as persistent as a child's.

"They are held in place by laws, Rosendo," the priest replied evasively. But as he made answer he revolved in his own mind that the laws by which an infinite universe is created and maintained must themselves be infinite.

"And God made those laws?"

"Yes, Rosendo."

But, the priest mused, a power great enough to frame infinite laws must be itself all-powerful. And if it has ever been all-powerful, it could never cease to be so, for there could be nothing to deprive it of its power. Omnipotence excludes everything else. Or, what is the same thing, is all-inclusive.

But laws originate, even as among human beings, in mind, for a law is a mental thing. So the infinite laws which bind the stars together, and by which the universe was designed and is still maintained, could have originated only in a mind, and that one infinite.

"Then God surely must know everything," commented Rosendo, by way of simple and satisfying conclusion.

Certainly the creator of an infinite universe--a universe, moreover, which reveals intelligence and knowledge on the part of its cause--the originator of infinite laws, which reveal omnipotence in their maker--must have all knowledge, all wisdom, at his command. But, on the other hand, intelligence, knowledge, wisdom, are ever mental things. What could embrace these things, and by them create an infinite universe, but an infinite mind?

Josè's thought reverted to Cardinal Newman's reference to God as "an initial principle." Surely the history of the universe reveals the patent fact that, despite the mutations of time, despite growth, maturity, and decay, despite "the wreck of matter and the crash of worlds," something endures. What is it--law? Yes, but more. Ideas? Still more. Mind? Yes, the mind which is the anima mundi, the principle, of all things.

"But if He is so great, Padre, and knows everything, I don't see why He made the devil," continued Rosendo; "for the devil fights against Him all the time."

Ah, simple-hearted child of nature! A mind so pure as yours should give no heed to thoughts of Satan. And the man at your side is now too deeply buried in the channels which run below the superficiality of the world's thought to hear your childish question. Wait. The cause of an infinite effect must itself be infinite. The framer of infinite laws must be an infinite mind. And an infinite mind must contain all knowledge, and have all power. But were it to contain any seeds or germs of decay, or any elements of discord--in a word, any evil--it must disintegrate. Then it would cease to be omnipotent. Verily, to be eternal and perfect it must be wholly good! "And so," the priest mused aloud, "we call it God."

But, he continued to reflect, when we accept the conclusion that the universe is the product of an infinite mind, we are driven to certain other inevitable conclusions, if we would be logical. The minds of men manifest themselves continually, and the manifestation is in mental processes and things. Mental activity results in the unfolding of ideas. Does the activity of an infinite mind differ in this respect? And, if not, can the universe be other than a mental thing? For, if an infinite mind created a universe, it must have done so by the unfolding of its own ideas! And, remaining infinite, filling all space, this mind must ever continue to contain those ideas. And the universe--the creation--is mental.

The burden of thought oppressed the priest, and he got up from his chair and paced back and forth before the house. But still his searching mind burrowed incessantly, as if it would unearth a living thing that had been buried since the beginning.

In order to fully express itself, an infinite mind would have to unfold an infinite number and variety of ideas. And this unfolding would go on forever, since an infinite number is never reached. This is "creation," and it could never terminate.

"Rosendo," said Josè, returning to his chair, "you have asked what God looks like. I cannot say, for God must be mind, unlimited mind. He has all knowledge and wisdom, as well as all power. He is necessarily eternal--has always existed, and always will, for He is entirely perfect and harmonious, without the slightest trace or taint of discord or evil."

"Then you think He does not look like us?" queried the simple Rosendo.

"Mind does not look like a human body, Rosendo. And an infinite cause can be infinite only by being mind, not body. Moreover, He is unchanging--for He could not change and remain eternal. Carmen insists that He is everywhere. To be always present He must be what the Bible says He is spirit. Or, what is the same thing, mind. Rosendo, He manifests Himself everywhere and in everything--there is no other conclusion admissible. And to be eternal He has got to be absolutely good!"

"But, Padre," persisted Rosendo, "who made the devil?"

"There is no devil!"

"But there is wickedness--"

"No!" interrupted Josè emphatically. "God is infinite good, and there can be no real evil."

"But how do you know that, Padre?"

"I can't say how I know it--it reasons out that way logically. I think I begin to see the light. Can you not see that for some reason Carmen doesn't admit the existence of evil? And you know, and I know, that she is on the right track. I have followed the opposite path all my life; and it led right into the slough of despond. Now I have turned, and am trying to follow her. And do you put the thought of Satan out of your mentality and do likewise."

"But, the Virgin Mary--she has power with God?" Rosendo's primitive ideas were in a hopeless tangle.

"Good friend, forget the Virgin Mary," said Josè gently, laying his hand on Rosendo's arm.

"Forget her! Hombre! Why--she has all power--she works miracles every hour--she directs the angels--gives commands to God himself! Padre Simón said she was the absolute mistress of heaven and earth, and that men and animals, the plants, the winds, all health, sickness, life and death, depended upon her will! He said she did not die as we must, but that she was taken up into heaven, and that her body was not allowed to decay and return to dust, as ours will. Hombre! She is in heaven now, praying for us. What would become of us but for her?--for she prays to God for us--she--!"

"No, Rosendo, she does nothing of the kind. God is infinite, unchanging. He could not be moved or influenced by the Virgin Mary or any one else. He is unlimited good. He is not angry with us--He couldn't be, for He could not know anger. Did not Jesus say that God was Love? Love does not afflict--Love does not need to be importuned or prayed to. I see it now. I see something of what Carmen sees. We suffer when we sin, because we 'miss the mark.' But the punishment lasts only as long as the sin continues. And we suffer only until we know that God is infinite good, and that there is no evil. That is the truth, I feel sure, which Jesus came to teach, and which he said would make us free. Free from what? From the awful beliefs that use us, and to which we are now subject, until we learn the facts about God and His creation. Don't you see that infinite good could never create evil, nor ever permit evil to be created, nor allow it to really exist?"

"Well, then, what is evil? And where did it come from?"

"That we must wait to learn, Rosendo, little by little. You know, the Spanish proverb says, 'Step by step goes a great way.' But meantime, let us go forward, clinging to this great truth: God is infinite good--He is love--we are His dear children--and evil was not made by Him, and does not have His sanction. It therefore cannot be real. It must be illusion. And, being such, it can be overcome, as Jesus said it could."

"Na, Padre--"

"Wait, Rosendo!" Josè held up his hand. "Carmen is doing just what I am advising you to do--is she not?"

"Yes, Padre."

"Do you think she is mistaken?"

"Padre, she knows God better than she knows me," the man whispered.

"It was you who first told her that God was everywhere, was it not?"

"Yes, Padre."

And the mind of the child, keenly sensitive and receptive to truth, had eagerly grasped this dictum and made it the motif of her life. She knew nothing of Jesus, nothing of current theology. Divine Wisdom had used Rosendo, credulous and superstitious though he himself was, to guard this girl's mind against the entrance of errors which were taught him as a child, and which in manhood held him shackled in chains which he might not break.

"Rosendo," Josè spoke low and reverently, "I believe now that you and I have both been guided by that great mind which I am calling God. I believe we are being used for some beneficent purpose, and that it has to do with Carmen. That purpose will be unfolded to us as we bow to His will. Every way closed against me, excepting the one that led to Simití. Here I found her. And now there seems to be but one way open to you--to go back to Guamocó. And you go, forgetful of self, thinking only that you serve her. Ah, friend, you are serving Him whom you reflect in love to His beautiful child."

"Yes, Padre."

"But, while we accept our tasks gratefully, I feel that we shall be tried--and we may not live to see the results of our labors. There are influences abroad which threaten danger to Carmen and to us. Perhaps we shall not avert them. But we have given ourselves to her, and through her to the great purpose with which I feel she is concerned."

Rosendo slowly rose, and his great height and magnificent physique cast the shadow of a Brobdignan in the light as he stood in the doorway.

"Padre," he replied, "I am an old man, and I have but few years left. But however many they be, they are hers. And had I a thousand, I would drag them all through the fires of hell for the child! I cannot follow you when you talk about God. My mind gets weary. But this I know, the One who brought me here and then went away will some day call for me--and I am always ready."

He turned into the house and sought his hard bed. The great soul knew not that he reflected the light of divine Love with a radiance unknown to many a boasting "vicar of Christ."

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Chapter 9

At the first faint flush of morn Rosendo departed for the hills. The emerald coronels of the giant ceibas on the far lake verge burned softly with a ruddy glow. From the water's dimpling surface downy vapors rose languidly in delicate tints and drew slowly out in nebulous bands across the dawn sky. The smiling softness of the velvety hills beckoned him, and the pungent odor of moist earth dilated his nostrils. He laughed aloud as the joyousness of youth surged again through his veins. The village still slumbered, and no one saw him as he smote his great chest and strode to the boat, where Juan had disposed his outfit and was waiting to pole him across. Only the faithful Doña Maria had softly called a final "adioscito" to him when he left his house. A half hour later, when the dugout poked its blunt nose into the ooze of the opposite shore, he leaped out and hurriedly divested himself of his clothing. Then he lifted his chair with its supplies to his shoulders, and Juan strapped it securely to his back, drawing the heavy band tightly across his forehead. With a farewell wave of his hand to the lad, the man turned and plunged into the Guamocó trail, and was quickly lost in the dense thicket. Six days later, if no accident befell, he would reach his destination, the singing waters of the crystal Tiguí.

His heart leaped as he strode, though none knew better than he what hardships those six days held for him--days of plunging through fever-laden bogs; staggering in withering heat across open savannas; now scaling the slippery slopes of great mountains; now swimming the chill waters of rushing streams; making his bed where night overtook him, among the softly pattering forest denizens and the swarming insect life of the dripping woods. His black skin glistened with perspiration and the heavy dew wiped from the close-growing bush. With one hand he leaned upon a young sapling cut for a staff. With the other he incessantly swung his machete to clear the dim trail. His eyes were held fixed to the ground, to escape tripping over low vines, and to avoid contact with crawling creatures of the jungle, whose sting, inflicted without provocation, might so easily prove fatal. His active mind sported the while among the fresh thoughts stimulated by. his journey, though back of all, as through a veil, the vision of Carmen rose like the pillar of cloud which guided the wandering Israel. Toil and danger fled its presence; and from it radiated a warm glow which suffused his soul with light.

When Josè arose that morning he was still puzzling over the logical conclusions drawn from his premise of the evening before, and trying to reconcile them with common sense and prevalent belief. In a way, he seemed to be an explorer, carving a path to hidden wonders. Doña Maria greeted him at the breakfast table with the simple announcement of Rosendo's early departure. No sign of sorrow ruffled her quiet and dignified demeanor. Nor did Carmen, who bounded into his arms, fresh as a new-blown rose, manifest the slightest indication of anxiety regarding Rosendo's welfare. Josè might not divine the thoughts which the woman's placid exterior concealed. But for the child, he well knew that her problem had been met and solved, and that she had laid it aside with a trust in immanent good which he did not believe all the worldly argument of pedant or philosopher could shake.

"Now to business once more!" cried Josè joyously, the meal finished. "Just a look-in at the church, to get the boys started; and then to devote the day to you, señorita!" The child laughed at the appellation.

Returning from the church some moments later, Josè found Carmen bending over the fireplace, struggling to remove a heavy kettle from the hot stones.

"Careful, child!" he cried in apprehension, hurrying to her assistance. "You will burn your fingers, or hurt yourself!"

"Not unless you make me, Padre," Carmen quickly replied, rising and confronting the priest with a demeanor whose every element spelled rebuke.

"Well, I certainly shall not make you!" the man exclaimed in surprise.

"No, Padre. God will not let you. He does not burn or hurt people."

"Certainly not! But--"

"And nothing else can, for He is everywhere--isn't He?"

"Well--perhaps so," the priest retorted impatiently. "But somehow people get burnt and hurt just the same, and it is well to be careful."

The child studied him for a moment. Then she said quietly--

"I guess people burn and hurt themselves because they are afraid--don't they? And I am not afraid."

She tossed her brown curls as if in defiance of the thought of fear. Yet Josè somehow felt that she never really defied evil, but rather met its suggestions with a firm conviction of its impotence in the presence of immanent good. He checked the impulse to further conversation. Bidding the child come to him as soon as possible to begin the day's work, he went back to his own abode to reflect.

He had previously said that this child should be brought up to know no evil. And yet, was he not suggesting evil to her at every turn? Did not his insistence upon the likelihood of hurting or burning herself emphasize his own stalwart belief in evil as an immanent power and contingency? Was he thus always to maintain a house divided against itself? But some day she must know, whether by instruction or dire experience, that evil is a fact to be reckoned with! And as her protector, it was his duty to--But he had not the heart to shatter such beautiful confidence!

Then he fell to wondering how long that pure faith could endure. Certainly not long if she were subjected to the sort of instruction which the children of this world receive. But was it not his duty with proper tutelage to make it last as long as possible? Was it not even now so firmly grounded that it never could be shaken?

He dwelt on the fact that nearly all children at some period early in life commune with their concept of God. He had, himself. As a very young child he had even felt himself on such terms of familiarity with God that he could not sleep without first bidding Him good night. As a young child, too, he had known no evil. Nor do any children, until their perfect confidence in good is chilled by the false instruction of parents and teachers, who parade evil before them in all its hideous garb.

Alas! for the baneful belief that years bring wisdom. How pitiable, and how cruelly detrimental to the child are an ignorant parent's assumptions of superiority! How tremendous the responsibility that now lay at his own door! Yet no greater than that which lies at the door of every parent throughout the world.

It is sadly true, he reflected, that children are educated almost entirely along material lines. Even in the imparting of religious instruction, the spiritual is so tainted with materialism, and its concomitants of fear and limitation, that the preponderance of faith is always on the material side. Josè had believed that as he had grown older in years he had lost faith. Far from it! The quantity of his faith remained fixed; but the quality had changed, through education, from faith in good to faith in evil. And though trained as a priest of God, in reality he had been taught wholly to distrust spiritual power.

But how could a parent rely on spiritual power to save a child about to fall into the fire? Must not children be warned, and taught to protect themselves from accident and disaster, as far as may be? True--yet, what causes accident and disaster? Has the parent's thought aught to do with it? Has the world's thought? Can it be traced to the universal acceptance of evil as a power, real and operative? Does mankind's woeful lack of faith in good manifest itself in accident, sickness, and death?

A cry roused Josè from his revery. It came from back of the house. Hastening to the rear door he saw Doña Maria standing petrified, looking in wide-eyed horror toward the lake. Josè followed her gaze, and his blood froze. Carmen had been sent to meet the canoe that daily supplied fresh water to the village from the Juncal river, which flowed into the lake at the far north end. It had not yet arrived, and she had sat down beside her jar at the water's edge, and was lost in dreams as she looked out over the shimmering expanse. A huge crocodile which had been lying in the shadow of a shale ledge had marked the child, and was steadily creeping up behind her. The reptile was but a few feet from her when Doña Maria, wondering at her delay, had gone to the rear door and witnessed her peril.

In a flash Josè recalled the tale related to him but a few days before by Fidel Avila, who was working in the church.

"Padre," Fidel had said, "as soon as the church is ready I shall offer a candle to good Santa Catalina for protecting my sister."

"How was that, my son?" inquired Josè.

"She protected her from a crocodile a year ago, Padre. The girl had gone to the lake to get water to wash our clothes, and as she sat in the stern of the boat dipping the water, a great crocodile rose and seized her arm. I heard her scream, and I was saying the rosary at the time. And so I prayed to Santa Catalina not to let the crocodile eat her, and she didn't."

"Then your sister was saved?"

"The crocodile pulled her under the water, Padre, and she was drowned. But he did not eat her; and we got her body and buried her here in the cemetery. We were very grateful."

Sancta simplicitas! That such childish credulity might be turned into proper channels!

But there were times when fish were scarce in the lake. Then the crocodiles became bold; and many babes had been seized and dragged off by them, never to return. The fishing this season had been very poor. And more than one fisherman had asked Josè to invoke the Virgin in his behalf.

Nearer crept the monster toward the unsuspecting girl. Suddenly she turned and looked squarely at it. She might almost have touched it with her hand. For Josè it was one of those crises that "crowd eternity into an hour." The child and the reptile might have been painted against that wondrous tropic background. The great brute stood bolt upright on its squat legs, its hideous jaws partly open. The girl made no motion, but seemed to hold it with her steady gaze. Then--the creature dropped; its jaws snapped shut; and it scampered into the water.

"God above!" cried Josè, as he rushed to the girl and clasped her in his arms. "Forgive me if I ever doubted the miracles of Jesus!"

Doña Maria turned and quietly resumed her work; but the man was completely unstrung.

"What is it, Padre?" Carmen asked in unfeigned surprise. "I am not afraid of crocodiles--are you? You couldn't be, if you knew that God is everywhere."

"But don't you know, child, that crocodiles have carried off--"

He checked himself. No--he would not say it. He had had his lesson.

"What, Padre?"

"Nothing--nothing--I forgot--that's all. A--a--come, let us begin our lessons now."

But his mind refused to be held to the work. Finally he had to ask--he could not help it.

"Carmen, what did you do? Did you talk to the crocodile?"

"Why, no, Padre--crocodiles don't talk!" And throwing her little head back she laughed heartily at the absurd idea.

"But--you did something! What was it? Tell me."

"No, Padre, I did nothing," the child persisted.

He saw he must reach her thought in another way. "Why did the crocodile come up to you, Carmen?" he asked.

"Why--I guess because it loved me--I don't know."

"And did you love it as you sat looking at it?"

"Of course, Padre. We have just got to love everything. Don't you know that?"

"Y--yes--that is so, chiquita. I--I just thought I would ask you. Now let us begin the arithmetic lesson."

The child loved the hideous saurian! And "perfect love casteth out fear." What turned the monster from the girl and drove it into the lake? Love, again, before which evil falls in sheer impotence? Had she worked a miracle? Certainly not! Had God interposed in her behalf? Again, no. "He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty." And would divine Love always protect her? There could be no question about it, as long as she knew no evil.

The morning hours sped past. From arithmetic, they turned to the English lesson. Next to perfection in her own Castilian, Josè felt that this language was most important for her. And she delighted in it, although her odd little pronunciations, and her vain attempts to manipulate words to conform to her own ideas of enunciation brought many a hearty laugh, in which she joined with enthusiasm. The afternoon, as was his plan for future work, was devoted to narratives of men and events, and to descriptions of places. It was a ceaseless wonder to Josè how her mind absorbed his instruction.

"How readily you see these things, Carmen," he said, as he concluded the work for the day.

"See them, Padre? But not with my outside eyes."

The remark seemed to start a train of thought within her mentality. "Padre," she at length asked, "how do we see with our eyes?"

"It is very simple, chiquita," Josè replied. "Here, let me draw a picture of an eye."

He quickly sketched a rough outline of the human organ of sight. "Now," he began, "you know you cannot see in the dark, don't you?"

"Yes, Padre?"

"In order to see, we must have light."

"What is light, Padre dear?"

"Well--light is--is vibrations. That is, rapid movement."

"What moves?"

"A--a--a--well, nothing--that is, light is just vibrations. The pendulum of the old clock in Don Mario's store vibrates, you know--moves back and forth."

"And light does that?"

"Yes; light is that. Now that chair there, for example, reflects light, just as a mirror does. It reflects vibrations. And these are all of just a certain length, for vibrations of just that length and moving up and down just so fast make light. The light enters the eye, like this," tracing the rays on his sketch. "It makes a little picture of the chair on the back of the eye, where the optic nerve is fastened. Now the light makes the little ends of this nerve vibrate, too--move very rapidly. And that movement is carried along the nerve to some place in the brain--to what we call the center of sight. And there we see the chair."

The child studied the sketch long and seriously.

"But, Padre, is the picture of the chair carried on the nerve to the brain?"

"Oh, no, chiquita, only vibrations. It is as if the nerve moved just a little distance, but very, very fast, back and forth, or up and down."

"And no picture is carried to the brain?"

"No, there is just a vibration in the brain."

"And that vibration makes us see the chair?"

"Yes, little one."

A moment of silence. Then--

"Padre dear, I don't believe it."

"Why, chiquita!"

"Well, Padre, what is it that sees the chair, anyway?"

"The mind, dear."

"Is the mind up there in the brain?"

"Well--no, we can't say that it is."

"Where is it, then?"

"A--a--well, no place in particular--that is, it is right here all the time."

"Well, then, when the mind wants to see the chair does it have to climb up into the brain and watch that little nerve wiggle?"

The man was at a loss for an answer. Carmen suddenly crumpled the sketch in her small hand and smiled up at him.

"Padre dear, I don't believe our outside eyes see anything. We just think they do, don't we?"

Josè looked out through the open door. Carmen's weird heron was stalking in immense dignity past the house.

"I think Cantar-las-horas is getting ready to sing the Vespers, chiquita. And so Doña Maria probably needs you now. We will talk more about the eye to-morrow."

By the light of his sputtering candle that night Josè sat with elbows propped on the table, his head clasped in his hands, and a sketch of the human eye before him. In his confident attempt to explain to Carmen the process of cognition he had been completely baffled. Certainly, light coming from an object enters the eye and casts a picture upon the retina. He had often seen the photographic camera exhibit the same phenomenon. The law of the impenetrability of matter had to be set aside, of course--or else light must be pure vibration, without a material vibrating concomitant. Then, too, it was plain that the light in some way communicated its vibration to the little projecting ends of the optic nerve, which lie spread out over the rear inner surface of the eye. And equally patent that this vibration is in some way taken up by the optic nerve and transmitted to the center of sight in the brain. But after that--what? He laughed again at Carmen's pertinent question about the mind climbing up into the brain to see the vibrating nerve. But was it so silly a presumption, after all? Is the mind within the brain, awaiting in Stygian darkness the advent of the vibrations which shall give it pictures of the outside world? Or is the mind outside of the brain, but still slavishly forced to look at these vibrations of the optic nerve and then translate them into terms of things without? What could a vibrating nerve suggest to a well-ordered mind, anyway? He might as logically wave a piece of meat and expect thereby to see a world! He laughed aloud at the thought. Why does not the foolish mind leave the brain and look at the picture on the retina? Or why does it not throw off its shackles and look directly at the object to be cognized, instead of submitting to dependence upon so frail a thing as fleshly eyes and nerves?

As he mused and sketched, unmindful of the voracious mosquitoes or the blundering moths that momentarily threatened his light, it dawned slowly upon him that the mind's awareness of material objects could not possibly depend upon the vibrations of pieces of nerve tissue, so minute as to be almost invisible to the unaided sight. Still more absurd did it appear to him that his own mind, of which he might justly boast tremendous powers, could be prostituted to such a degree that its knowledge of things must be served to it on waving pieces of flesh.

And how about the other senses--touch, hearing? Did the ear hear, or the hand feel? He had always accepted the general belief that man is dependent absolutely upon the five physical senses for his knowledge of an outside world. And now a little thought showed that from these five senses man could not possibly receive anything more than a series of disconnected vibrations! And, going a step further, anything that the mind infers from these vibrations is unquestionably inferred without a particle of outside authority!

He rose and paced the floor. A tremendous idea seemed to be knocking at the portal of his mentality.

What can the mind know? Assuredly nothing but the contents of itself. But the contents of mind are thoughts, ideas, mental things. Do solid material objects enter the mind? Certainly not! Then the mind knows not things, but its thoughts of things. And instead of seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, and feeling solid material objects, the mind sees, hears, smells, tastes, and feels--what? The contents of itself! Its own thoughts and ideas! And the outer world? Is only what the mind believes it to be. But surely his mind saw an outer world through the medium of his eye! No. His mind saw only its own concepts of an outer world--and these concepts, being mental, might take on whatever hue and tinge his mind decreed. In other words, instead of seeing a world of matter, he was seeing only a mental picture of a world. And that picture was in his own mind, and formed by that mind!

The man seized his hat and hurried out into the night. He walked rapidly the full length of the town. His mind was wrestling with stupendous thoughts.

An hour later he returned to his house, and seizing a pencil, wrote rapidly: Matter is mental. We do not see or feel matter, but we think it. It is formed and held as a mental concept in every human mind. The material universe is but the human mind's concept of a universe, and can only be this mentality's translation to itself of infinite Mind's purely mental Creation.

"And so," he commented aloud, sitting back and regarding his writing, "all my miserable life I have been seeing only my own thoughts! And I have let them use me and color my whole outlook!"

He extinguished the candle and threw himself, fully dressed, upon his bed.

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Chapter 10

Momentous changes, of far-reaching effect, had come swiftly upon Josè de Rincón during the last few days, changes which were destined after much vacillation and great mental struggle to leave a reversed outlook. But let no one think these changes fortuitous or casual, the chance result of a new throw of Fate's dice. Josè, seeing them dimly outlined, did not so regard them, but rather looked upon them as the working of great mental laws, still unknown, whose cumulative effect had begun a transformation in his soul. How often in his seminary days he had pondered the scripture, "He left not Himself without witness." How often he had tried to see the hopeless confusion of good and evil in the world about him as a witness to the One who is of purer eyes than to behold evil. And he had at last abandoned his efforts in despair. Yet that there must be something behind the complex phenomena which men call life, he knew. Call it what he would--law, force, mind, God, or even X, the great unknown quantity for which life's intricate equations must be solved--yet something there was in it all which endured in an eternal manifestation. But could that something endure in an expression both good and evil?

He had long since abandoned all study of the Bible. But in these last days there had begun to dawn upon him the conviction that within that strange book were locked mysteries which far transcended the wildest imaginings of the human mind. With it came also the certainty that Jesus had been in complete possession of those sacred mysteries. There could be no question now that his mission had been woefully misunderstood, often deliberately misinterpreted, and too frequently maliciously misused by mankind. His greatest sayings, teachings so pregnant with truth that, had they been rightfully appropriated by men, ere this would have dematerialized the universe and revealed the spiritual kingdom of God, had been warped by cunning minds into crude systems of theology and righteous shams, behind which the world's money-changers and sellers of doves still drove their wicked traffic and offered insults to Truth in the temple of the Most High.

Oh, how he now lamented the narrowness and the intellectual limitations with which his seminary training had been hedged about! The world's thought had been a closed book to him. Because of his morbid honesty, only such pages reached his eye as had passed the bigoted censorship of Holy Church. His religious instruction had been served to him with the seal of infallible authority. Of other systems of theology he had been permitted only the Vatican's biased interpretation, for the curse of Holy Church rested upon them. Of current philosophical thought, of Bible criticism and the results of independent scriptural research, he knew practically nothing--little beyond what the explorer had told him in their memorable talks a few weeks before in Cartagena. But, had he known it, these had unbarred the portals of his mind to the reception of the new ideas which, under a most powerful stimulus, were now flowing so steadily through them. That stimulus was Carmen.

To meet with a child of tender years who knows no evil is, after all, a not uncommon thing. For, did we but realize it, the world abounds in them. They are its glory, its radiance--until they are taught to heed the hiss of the serpent. Their pure knowledge of immanent good would endure--ah, who may say how long?--did not we who measure our wisdom by years forbid them with the fear-born mandate: "Thus far!" What manner of being was he who said, "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not?" Oh, ye parents, who forbid your little ones to come to the Christ by hourly heaping up before them the limitations of fear and doubt, of faith in the power and reality of sin and evil, of false instruction, and withering material beliefs! Would not the Christ pray for you to-day, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do"?

When Josè met Carmen she was holding steadfastly to her vision--the immanence and allness of God. Each day she created the morrow; and she knew to a certainty that it would be happy. Would he, clanking his fetters of worldly beliefs, be the one to shatter her illusion, if illusion it be? Nay, rather should he seek to learn of her, if; haply she be in possession of that jewel for which he had searched a vain lifetime. Already from the stimulus which his intercourse with the child had given his mental processes there had come a sudden liberation of thought. Into his freer mentality the Christ-idea now flowed.

Mankind complain that they cannot "prove" God. But Paul long since declared emphatically that to prove Him the human mind must be transformed. In the light of the great ideas which had dawned upon him in the past few days--the nature of God as mind, unlimited, immanent, eternal, and good; and the specious character of the five physical senses, which from the beginning have deluded mankind into the false belief that through them comes a true knowledge of the cosmos--Josè's mentality was being formed anew.

Hegel, delving for truth in a world of illusion, summed up a lifetime of patient research in the pregnant statement, "The true knowledge of God begins when we know that things as they are have no truth in them." The testimony of the five physical senses constitutes "things as they are." But--if Josè's reasoning be not illogical--the human mind receives no testimony from these senses, which, at most, can offer but insensate and meaningless vibrations in a pulpy mass called the brain. The true knowledge of God, for which Josè had yearned and striven, begins only when men turn from the mesmeric deception of the physical senses, and learn that there is something, knowable and usable, behind them, and of whose existence they give not the slightest intimation.

It was Saturday. The church edifice was so far put in order that Josè found no reason for not holding service on the morrow. He therefore announced the fact, and told Carmen that he must devote the day to preparation. Their lessons must go over to Monday. Seeking the solitude of his house, Josè returned to his Bible.

He began with Genesis. "In the beginning--God." Not, as in the codes of men, God last, and after every material expedient has been exhausted--but "to begin with." Josè could not deny that for all that exists there is a cause. Nor can the human mind object to the implication that the cause of an existing universe must itself continue to exist. Even less can it deny that the framer of the worlds, bound together in infinite space by the unbreakable cables of infinite laws, must be omnipotent. And to retain its omnipotence, that cause must be perfect--absolutely good--every whit pure, sound, and harmonious; for evil is demonstrably self-destructive. And, lastly, what power could operate thus but an infinite intelligence, an all-inclusive mind?

Now let the human mentality continue its own reasoning, if so be that it hold fast to fact and employ logical processes. If "like produces like"--and from thistles figs do not grow--that which mind creates must be mental. And a good cause can produce only a good effect. So the ancient writer, "And God saw every thing that He had made, and, behold, it was very good." The inspired scribe--inspired? Yes, mused Josè, for inspiration is but the flow of truth into one's mentality--stopped not until he had said, "So God created man in His own image"--

Wait! He will drive that home.

--"in the image of God"--not in the image of matter, not in the likeness of evil--"created He him." But what had now become of that man?

So Jesus, centuries later, "God is spirit," and, "That which is born of the Spirit is spirit." Or, man--true man--expresses mind, God, and is His eternal and spiritual likeness and reflection. But, to make this still clearer to torpid minds, Paul wrote, "For in Him we live, and move, and have our being." Then he added, "To be spiritually minded is life." As if he would say, True life is the consciousness of spiritual things only.

Is human life aught but a series of states of consciousness? And is consciousness aught but mental activity?--for when the mind's activity ceases, the man dies. But mental activity is the activity of thought.

"It is the activity of thought," said Josè aloud, "that makes us believe that fleshly eyes see and ears hear. We see only our thoughts; and in some way they become externalized as our environment."

His reasoning faculty went busily on. Thought builds images, or mental concepts, within the mind. These are the thought-objects which mankind believe they see as material things in an outer world. And so the world is within, not without. Jesus must have known this when he said, "The kingdom of heaven is within you." Did he not know the tremendous effects of thought when he said, "For as a man thinketh, so is he"? In other words, a man builds his own mental image of himself, and conveys it to the fellow-minds about him.

Josè again opened his Bible at random. His eye fell upon the warning of Jeremiah, "Hear, O earth, behold I will bring evil upon this people, even the fruit of their thoughts!" Alas! he needed no warning to show him now the dire results of his own past wrong thinking. Evil is but wrong thinking wrought out in life experience. And so the chief of sins is the breaking of the very first Commandment, the belief in other powers than God, the infinite mind that framed the spiritual universe.

"But we simply can't help breaking the Commandment," cried Josè, "when we see nothing but evil about us! And yet--we are seeing only the thoughts in our own minds. True--but how came they there? And whence? From God?"

Josè was quite ready to concede a mental basis for everything; to believe that even sin is but the thought of sin, false thought regarding God and His Creation. But, if God is all-inclusive mind, He must be the only thinker. And so all thought must proceed from Him. All thought, both good and evil? No, for then were God maintaining a house divided against itself. And that would mean His ultimate dissolution.

Infinite, omnipotent mind is by very logic compelled to be perfect. Then the thoughts issuing from that mind must be good. So it must follow that evil thoughts come from another source. But if God is infinite, there is no other source, no other cause. Then there is but the single alternative left--evil thoughts must be unreal.

What was it that the explorer had said to him in regard to Spencer's definition of reality? "That which endures." But, for that matter, evil seems to be just as enduring as good, and to run its course as undeviatingly. After all, what is it that says there is evil? The five physical senses. But that again reduces to the thought of evil, for men see only their thoughts. These so-called senses say that the world is flat--that the sun circles the earth--that objects diminish in size with distance. They testify not to truth. Jesus said that evil, or the "devil," was "a liar and the father of lies." Then the testimony of the physical senses to evil--and there is no other testimony to its existence and power--is a lie. A lie is--what? Nothing. Reason has had to correct sense-testimony in the field of astronomy and show that the earth is not flat. Where, indeed, has reason not had to correct sense-testimony? For Josè could now see that all such testimony was essentially false. "Things as they are have no truth in them." In other words, sense-testimony is false belief. Again, a lie. And the habitat of a lie is--nowhere. Did the world by clinging to evil and trying to make something of it, to classify it and reduce it to definite rules and terms, thus tend to make it real? Assuredly so. And as long as the world held evil to be real, could evil be overcome? Again, no. A reality endures forever.

Josè arose from his study. He believed he was close to the discovery of that solid basis of truth on which to stand while teaching Carmen. At any rate, her faith, which he could no longer believe to be baseless illusion, would not be shattered by him.

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Chapter 11

Two weeks after his arrival in Simití Josè conducted his first services in the ancient church. After four years of silence, the rusty bell sent out its raucous call from the old tower that still morning and announced the revival of public worship.

As the priest stepped from the sacristy and approached the altar his heart experienced a sudden sinking. Before him his little flock bowed reverently and expectantly. Looking out at them, a lump rose in his throat. He was their pastor, and daily his love had grown for these kindly, simple folk. And now, what would he not have given could he have stretched forth his hands, as did the Master, to heal them of their ills and lift them out of the shadows of ignorance! Ah, if he could have thrown aside the mummery and pagan ceremonialism which he was there to conduct, and have sat down among them, as Jesus was wont to do on those still mornings in Galilee! Instead, he stood before them an apostate vassal of Rome, hypocritically using the Church to shield and maintain himself in Simití while he reared away from her the child Carmen.

Yet, what could he do? He had heard the call; and he had answered, "Master, here am I." And now he was occupying, while waiting to be led, step by step, out of his cruelly anomalous position and into his rightful domain. A traitor to Holy Church? Nay, he thought he would have been a traitor to all that was best and holiest within himself had he done otherwise. In the name of the Church he would serve these humble people. Serving them, he honored the Master. And honoring Christ, he could not dishonor the Church.

Josè's conduct of the Mass was perfunctory. Vainly he strove to hold in thought the symbolism of the service, the offering of Christ as a propitiation for the world's sins. But gradually the folly of Milton's extravagant, wild dream, which the poet clothed in such imperishable beauty, stole over him and blinded this vision. He saw the Holy Trinity sitting in solemn council in the courts of heaven. He heard their perplexed discussion of the ravages of Satan in the terrestrial paradise below. He heard the Father pronounce His awful curse upon mankind. And he beheld the Son rise and with celestial magnanimity offer himself as the sacrificial lamb, whose blood should wash away the serpent-stain of sin. How inept the whole drama!

And then he thought of Carmen. He had seen her, as he looked out over his people, sitting with Doña Maria, arrayed in a clean white frock, and swinging her plump bare legs beneath the bench, while wonder and amazement peered out from her big brown eyes as she followed his every move. What would such things mean to her, whose God was ever-present good? What did they mean to the priest himself, who was beginning to see Him as infinite, divine mind, knowing no evil--the One whose thoughts are not as ours?

He took up the holy water and sprinkled the assemblage. "Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow." But how is the human mind purged of error? By giving it truth. And does the infinite mind purge the thought of men in any other way? His mind was full as he took up the Missal. "Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison."

He hesitated. With a tug he pulled his mind back to the work before him. But why was he invoking clemency from One who knows no evil? Heretofore he had always thought that God knew evil, that He must recognize it, and that He strove Himself to overcome it. But if God knew evil, then evil were real and eternal! Dreamily he began to intone the Gloria in Excelsis Deo. All hail, thou infinite mind, whose measureless depths mortal man has not even begun to sound! His soul could echo that strain forever.

He turned to the Lesson and read: "But there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground. And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground." He stopped a moment for thought. The Lord God! The mist of error watered the false thought--the one lie about God--and out of it formed the man of flesh, the false concept which is held in the minds of mortals. Aye, it was the lie, posing as the Lord of creation, which had formed its false man out of the dust of the ground, and had forced it upon the acceptance of mankind! Josè turned back and read the whole of the first chapter of Genesis, where he felt that he stood upon truth.

The tapers on the altar flickered fitfully. The disturbed bats blundered among the rafters overhead. Outside, the dusty roads burned with a white glare. Within, he and the people were worshiping God. Worship? This? "God is a spirit, and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth." In Truth!

Josè recited the Nicene creed, with the thought that its man-made fetters had bound the Christian world for dreary centuries. Then, the Preface and Canon concluded, he pronounced the solemn words of consecration which turned the bread and wine before him into the flesh and blood of Christ Jesus. He looked at the wafer and the chalice long and earnestly. He--Josè de Rincón--mortal, human, a weakling among weaklings--could he command God by his "Hoc est enim corpus meum" to descend from heaven to this altar? Could he so invoke the power of the Christ as to change bread and wine into actual flesh and blood? And yet, with all the priestly powers which Holy Church had conferred upon him, he could not heal a single bodily ill, nor avert one human misfortune!

Ah, pagan Rome! Well have you avenged yourself upon those who wrought your fall, for in the death conflict you left the taint of your paganism upon them, and it endures in their sons even to this fair day!

Josè deferred his sermon until the close of the service. He wanted time to think over again what he could say to these simple people. They sat before him, dull, inert, yet impressionable--bare of feet, or wearing hempen sandals, and clad in cheap cottons and calicos, with here and there a flash of bright ribbon among the women, and occasionally a parasol of brilliant hue, which the owner fondly clasped, while impatiently awaiting the close of the service that she might proudly parade it. A few of the men wore starched linen shirts, but without collars. The Alcalde, with his numerous family, and the family of Don Felipe Alcozer, sat well in front. The former regarded Josè expectantly, as the priest turned to deliver his simple sermon.

"My children," Josè began, "when the good man whom we call the Saviour sent his disciples out into the world he told them to preach the gospel and heal the sick. We have no record that he asked them to do more, for that included his whole mission. I am here to do his work. And, as I believe myself to have been led to you, so I shall preach what I believe to be given me by the great Father of us all. I shall teach you the Christ as I comprehend him. I would I could heal the sick as well. But the gift of healing which Jesus bestowed has been lost to mankind." He paused and seemed to think deeply. Then he continued:

"I am your servant, and your friend. I want you to believe that whatever I do in your midst and whatever I say to you follows only after I have prayerfully considered your welfare. As time has passed I have seemed to see things in a clearer light than before. What I may see in the future I shall point out to you as you are able to understand me. To that end we must suffer many things to be as they are for the present, for I am learning with you. I shall give you a single thought to take with you to-day. Jesus once said, 'As a man thinketh, so is he.' I want you to remember that, if you would be well and happy and prosperous, you must think only about good things. Some day you will see why this is so. But go back now to your fincas and your fishing, to your little stores and your humble homes, firmly resolving never to think a bad thought, whether about yourself or your neighbor. And pray for yourselves and me--"

He looked off into the gloom overhead. Again he seemed to hear the Man of Galilee: "Ask and ye shall receive."

"And, my children--"

He thought suddenly of Carmen and her visits to the shales. His face shone for a moment with a new light.

"--let your prayers be no mere requests that God will bless us, but rather let them be statements that He is infinite good, and that He cannot do otherwise than give us all we need. No, I ask not that you intercede for me; nor shall I do so for you. But I do ask that you join with me in trying to realize that God is good; that He loves us as His dear children; and that He is daily, hourly pouring out His inexhaustible goodness upon us. We shall all see that goodness when we learn to think no evil."

His eyes rested upon Carmen as he spoke these last words. Then with a simple invocation he dismissed the congregation.

The Alcalde carried Josè off to dinner with him, much against the inclination of the priest, who preferred to be alone. But the Alcalde was the chief influence in the town, and it was policy to cultivate him.

"The blessed Virgin shows that she has not forgotten Simití, Padre, by sending you here," said Don Mario, when they were seated in the shade of the ample patio.

Josè knew the Alcalde was sounding him. "Yes, friend," with just a trace of amusement in his voice. "It was doubtless because of the Virgin that I was directed here," he replied, thinking of Carmen.

"Excellent advice that you gave the people, Padre; but it is not likely they understood you, poor fools! Now if Padre Diego had been preaching he would have ranted like a windstorm; but he would have made an impression. I am afraid soft words will not sink into their thick skulls."

Dinner was served in the open, during which the Alcalde chattered volubly.

"Don Rosendo returns soon?" he finally ventured. Josè knew that for some time he had been edging toward the question.

"Quien sabe, señor!" replied the priest, with a careless shrug of his shoulders.

"But--Caramba! he is old to prospect for gold--and alone, too!" Don Mario eyed Josè sharply.

"Ah, you priests!" he burst out laughing. "You are all alike when it comes to money. Padre Diego was up to the same schemes; and before he left he had a hat full of titles to mines."

"But I am not seeking to acquire mineral property!" exclaimed Josè with some aspersion.

"No? Then you had nothing to do with Rosendo's trip?"

Josè kept silence.

"Na, Padre, let us be confidential," said the Alcalde, hitching his chair closer to the priest. "Look, I understand why Rosendo went into the Guamocó country--but you can trust me to say nothing about it. Only, Padre, if he should find the mine he will have trouble enough to hold it. But I can help you both. You know the denouncement papers must go through my hands, and I send them to Cartagena for registration."

He sat back in his chair with a knowing look.

"There is only one man here to be afraid of," he resumed; "and that is Don Felipe Alcozer; although he may never return to Simití." He reflected a few moments. Then:

"Now, Padre, let us have some understanding about interests in the mine, should Rosendo find it. The mine will be useless to us unless we work it, for there is no one to buy it from us. To work it, we must have a stamp-mill, or arrastras. The Antioquanians are skilled in the making of wooden stamp-mills; but one would cost perhaps two thousand pesos oro. Nobody here can furnish so much money but Don Felipe. I will arrange with him for a suitable interest. And I will fix all the papers so that the title will be held by us three. Rosendo is only a peon. You can pay him for his trouble, and he need not have an interest."

Josè breathed easier while this recital was in progress. So Don Mario believed Rosendo to have gone in search of the lost mine, La Libertad! Good; for Cartagena would soon get the report, and his own tenure of the parish would be rendered doubly sure thereby. The monthly greasing of Wenceslas' palm with what Rosendo might extract from the Guamocó sands, coupled with the belief that Josè was maintaining a man in the field in search of Don Ignacio's lost mine, rendered Cartagena's interference a very remote contingency. He almost laughed as he replied:

"Rosendo will doubtless prospect for some months, Don Mario, and I am sure we shall have plenty of time to discuss any arrangement of interests later, should occasion arise. But this is the Sabbath day. So let us not talk business any further."

When the afternoon heat began to wane, Josè left the Alcalde and returned to his cottage. Since the service of the morning he had been fighting a constantly deepening sense of depression. An awful loneliness now gripped his heart, and dank gloom was again sweeping through the corridors of his soul. God, what a sacrifice, to remain buried in that dismal town! His continuance in the priesthood of an abjured faith was violative of every principle of honesty! The time would come when the mask of hypocrisy would have to be raised, and the resultant exposure would be worse then than open apostasy now!

He entered his dreary little abode and threw himself upon a chair. There had been no reaction like this for days. He looked out into the deserted street. Mud hovels; ragged, thatched roofs; lowly peones drowsing away life's little hour within! There was scarcely a book in the town. Few of its inhabitants could even read or write. Culture, education, refinement--all wanting. Nothing but primal existence--the barest necessities of real life. He could not stand it! He had been a fool all his years! He would throw everything to the winds and go out into the world to live his life as it had been intended he should live it. He would send his resignation to the Bishop to-morrow. Then he would hire Juan to take him to Bodega Central; and the few pesos he had left would get him to Barranquilla. There he would work until he had earned enough for his passage to the great States up north, of which the explorer had told such wonderful tales. Once there, he could teach, or--

His thought turned to Rosendo. He saw him, bent with age, and wearied with toil, alone in the awful solitude of the jungle, standing knee deep in the cold mountain water, while from early dawn till sunset he incessantly swung the heavy batea to concentrate the few flakes of precious gold it might contain. And the old man was facing years of just such loneliness and heavy toil--facing them gladly.

He thought of Carmen. Was she worth such sacrifice as he and Rosendo were making? God forgive him! Yes--a thousand times yes! If he betrayed Rosendo's confidence and fled like a coward now, leaving her to fall into the sooty hands of men like Padre Diego, to be crushed, warped, and squeezed into the molds of Holy Church, could he ever again face his fellow-men?

He jumped to his feet. "Get thee behind me, Satan!" he cried in a voice that echoed through the barren rooms. He smote his chest and paced the floor. Then he stopped still. He heard Carmen's voice again. It was the same simple melody she had sung the day he awoke from his fever. He stood listening. His eyes filled. Then--

"Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might, Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight."

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Chapter 12

In the days that followed, while at times Josè still struggled desperately against the depression of his primal environment, and against its insidious suggestions of license, Carmen moved before him like the shechinah of Israel, symbolizing the divine presence. When the dark hours came and his pronounced egoism bade fair to overwhelm him; when his self-centered thought clung with the tenacity of a limpet to his dreary surroundings and his unfilled longings; when self-condemnation and self-pity rived his soul, and despair of solving life's intricate problems settled again like a pall upon him, he turned to her. Under the soft influence of her instinct for primitive good, he was learning, even if slowly, to jettison his heavily laden soul, and day by day to ride the tossing waves of his stormy thought with a lighter cargo. Her simple faith in immanent good was working upon his mind like a spiritual catharsis, to purge it of its clogging beliefs. Her unselfed love flowed over him like heavenly balm, salving the bleeding wounds of the spiritual mayhem which he had suffered at the violent hands of Holy Church's worldly agents.

Carmen's days were filled to the brim with a measure of joy that constantly overflowed upon all among whom she moved. Her slight dependence upon her impoverished material environment, her contempt of its ennui, were constant reminders to Josè that heaven is but a state of mind. Even in desolate Simití, life to her was an endless series of delightful experiences, of wonderful surprises in the discovery of God's presence everywhere. Her enthusiasms were always ardent and inexhaustible. Sparkling animation and abounding vitality characterized her every movement. Her thought was free, unstrained, natural, and untrammeled by those inherited and educated beliefs in evil in which Josè had early been so completely swamped. In worldly knowledge she was the purest novice; and the engaging naïveté with which she met the priest's explanations of historical events and the motives from which they sprang charmed him beyond measure, and made his work with her a constant delight. Her sense of humor was keen, and her merriment when his recitals touched her risibility was extravagant. She laughed at danger, laughed at the weaknesses and foibles of men, when he told of the political and social ambitions which stirred mankind in the outside world. But he knew that her merriment proceeded not from an ephemeral sense of the ludicrous, but from a righteous appraisal of the folly and littleness of those things for which the world so sorely strives.

And daily the little maid wrapped herself about his heart. Daily her wondrous love coiled its soft folds tighter around him, squeezing from his atrabilious soul, drop by drop, its sad taciturnity and inherent morbidness, that it might later fill his empty life with a spiritual richness which he had never known before.

On the day following the opening of the church Carmen had asked many questions. It was the first religious service she had ever voluntarily attended. To her former queries regarding the function of the church edifice, Rosendo had vouchsafed but one reply: it was the house of God, and in it the people used to gather to learn of Him. But she protested that she had no need of the musty, ramshackle, barn-like old building as a locus in which to center her thought upon God. She walked with Him, and she much preferred the bright, sunlit out-of-doors in which to commune with Him. Josè explained the need of a central gathering place as a shelter from the hot sun. But the images--the pictures of Saints and Virgin--and the Mass itself?

"They are what the people are accustomed to, dear child, to direct their thought toward God," he explained. "And we will use them until we can teach them something better." He had omitted from the church service as far as possible the collects and all invocations addressed to the Virgin and the Saints, and had rendered it short and extremely simple. Carmen seemed satisfied with his explanation, and with his insistence that, for the sake of appearance, she attend the Sunday services. He would trust her God to guide them both.

The days sped by silently and swiftly. Josè and the child dwelt together apart from the world, in a universe purely mental. As he taught her, she hung upon his every word, and seized the proffered tutelage with avidity. Often, after the day's work, Josè, in his customary strolls about the little town, would come across the girl in the doorway of a neighboring house, with a group of wide-eyed youngsters about her, relating again the wonder-tales which she had gathered from him. Marvelous tales they were, too, of knight and hidalgo, of court and camp, of fairies, pyxies, gnomes and sprites, of mossy legend and historic fact, bubbling from the girl's childish lips with an engaging naïveté of interpretation that held the man enchanted. Even the schoolmaster, who had besought Josè in vain to turn Carmen over to him, was often a spellbound listener at these little gatherings.

The result was that in a short time a delegation, headed by the Alcalde himself, waited upon Josè and begged him to lecture to the people of Simití in the church building at least two or three evenings a week upon places and people he had seen in the great world of which they knew nothing. Josè's eyes were moist as he looked at the great, brawny men, stout of heart, but simple as children. He grieved to give up his evenings, for he had formed the habit of late of devoting them to the study of his Bible, and to meditation on those ideas which had so recently come to him. But the appeal from these innocent, untutored people again quenched the thought of self, and he bade them be assured that their request was granted.

The new ideas which had found entrance into Josè's liberated mentality in the past few days had formed a basis on which he was not afraid to stand while teaching Carmen; and his entire instruction was thenceforth colored by them. He knew not why, in all the preceding years, such ideas had not come to him before. But he was to learn, some day, that his previous tenacious clinging to evil as a reality, together with his material beliefs and his worldly intellectuality, had stood as barriers at the portals of his thought, and kept the truth from entering. His mind had been already full--but its contents were unbelief, fear, the conviction of evil as real and operative, and the failure to know God as immanent, omnipotent and perfect mind, to whom evil is forever unknown and unreal. Pride, egoism, and his morbid sense of honesty had added their portion to the already impassable obstruction at the gateway of his thought. And so the error had been kept within, the good without. The "power of the Lord" had not been absent; but it had remained unapplied. Thus he had wandered through the desolate wilderness; but yet sustained and kept alive, that he should not go down to the pit.

Josè's days were now so crowded that he was forced to borrow heavily from the night. The Alcalde continued his unctuous flattery, and the priest, in turn, cultivated him assiduously. To that official's query as to the restitution of the confessional in the church, the priest replied that he could spare time to hear only such confessions from his flock as might be necessary to elicit from him the advice or assistance requisite for their needs. He was there to help them solve their life problems, not to pry into their sacred secrets; and their confessions must relate only to their necessities.

The Alcalde went away with a puzzled look. Of a truth a new sort of priest had now to be reckoned with in Simití--a very different sort from Padre Diego.

In the first days of Josè's incumbency he found many serious matters to adjust. He had learned from Rosendo that not half the residents of Simití were married to the consorts with whom they lived, and that many of the children who played in the streets did not know who their fathers were. So prevalent was this evil condition that the custom among the men of having their initials embroidered upon the bosoms of their shirts was extended to include the initial of the mother's family name. Josè had questioned Rosendo as to the meaning of the letters R. A. S. upon his shirt.

"The S, Padre, is the initial of my mother's family name. I am Rosendo Ariza, son of the daughter of Saurez. My parents were married by a priest. But half the people of Simití have never been really married."

Josè sought the cause of this dereliction. Fidel Avila was living with a woman, by whom he had three children. The priest summoned him to the parish house.

"Fidel," he questioned sternly, "Jacinta, the woman you live with, is your wife?"

"Yes, Señor Padre."

"And you were married by the Church?"

"No, Padre."

"But was there a priest here when you began to live with Jacinta?"

"Yes, Padre. The Cura, Don Diego Polo, was here."

"Then why were you not married by him? Do you not know how wicked it is to live as you are doing? Think of your children!"

"Yes, Padre, and I asked the Cura, Don Diego, to marry us. But he charged twenty pesos oro for doing it; and I could not afford it. I loved Jacinta. And so we decided to live together without the marriage."

"But--!" Josè stopped. He knew that the Church recognized no marriage unless it were performed by a priest. The civil magistrate had no jurisdiction in such a case. And a former priest's rapacity had resulted in forcing illegitimacy upon half the children of this benighted hamlet, because of their parents' inability to afford the luxury of a canonical marriage.

"Fidel, were your father and mother married?" he asked in kinder tones.

"I do not know, Padre. Only a few people in Guamocó can afford to pay to be married. The men and women live together, perhaps for all time, perhaps for only a few months. If a man wishes to leave his woman and live with another, he does so. If there are children, the woman always has to keep and care for them."

"And could you leave Jacinta if you wished, and live with another woman?"

"Yes, Padre."

"And she would have to lake care of your children?"

"Yes."

"And all because you are not married?"

"I think so, Padre."

"Hombre! But that will do, Fidel."

Oh, the sordid greed of those who abuse their sacred commission! What punishment is mete for such as exploit these lowly folk in the name of religion! Josè strode off to consult the Alcalde.

"Don Mario, the men in Simití who are living with women have got to be married to them! It is shameful! I shall make a canvass of the town at once!"

The Alcalde laughed. "Costumbre, Padre. You can't change it."

Costumbre del país! It is a final answer all through South America. No matter how unreasonable a thing may be, if it is the custom of the country it is a Medean law.

"But you know this is subversive of Church discipline!" Josè retorted warmly. "Look you, Don Mario," he added suggestively, "you and I are to work together, are we not?"

The Alcalde blinked his pig eyes, but thought hard about La Libertad. "Cierto, Señor Padre!" he hastened to exclaim.

"Then I demand that you summon before me every man and woman who are living together unmarried."

With a thought single to his own future advantage, the wary Alcalde complied. Within the week following this interview Josè married twenty couples, and without charge. Some offered him a few pesos. These he took and immediately turned over to Don Mario as treasurer of the parish. Those couples who refused to be married were forced by the Alcalde to separate. But of these there were few. Among them was one Julio Gomez. Packing his few household effects upon his back, and muttering imprecations against the priest, Gomez set out for the hills, still followed by his woman, with a babe slung over her shoulders and two naked children toddling at her bare heels.

Verily, the ancient town was being profoundly stirred by the man who had sought to find his tomb there. Gradually the people lost their suspicions and distrust, bred of former bitter experience with priests, and joined heartily with Josè to ameliorate the social status of the place. His sincere love for them, and his utter selflessness, secured their confidence, and ere his first month among them closed, he had won them, almost to a man.

Meantime, six weeks had passed since Rosendo had departed to take up his lonely task of self-renouncing love. Then one day he returned, worn and emaciated, his great frame shaking like a withered leaf in a chill blast.

"It is the terciana, Padre," he said, as he sank shuddering upon his bed. "It comes every third day. I went as far as Tachí--fifty leagues from Simití--and there the fever overtook me. I have been eight days coming back; and day before yesterday I ran out of food. Last evening I found a wild melon at the side of the trail. A coral snake struck at me when I reached for it, but he hit my machete instead. Caramba!"

Josè pressed his wet hand, while Doña Maria laid damp cloths upon his burning forehead.

"The streams are washed out, Padre," Rosendo continued sadly. "I worked at Colorado, Popales, and Tambora. But I got no more than five pesos worth. And that will not pay for half of my supplies. It is there in a little bag," pointing to his soaked and muddy kit.

Josè's heart was wrung by the suffering and disappointment of the old man. Sadly he carried the little handful of gold flakes to Don Mario, and then returned to the exhausted Rosendo.

All through the night the sick man tossed and moaned. By morning he was delirious. Then Josè and Doña Maria became genuinely alarmed. The toil and exposure had been too much for Rosendo at his advanced age. In his delirium he talked brokenly of the swamps through which he had floundered, for he had taken the trail in the wet season, and fully half of its one hundred and fifty miles of length was oozy and all but impassable bog.

By afternoon the fever had greatly increased. Don Mario shook his head as he stood over him.

"I have seen many in that condition, Padre, and they didn't wake up! If we had quinine, perhaps he might be saved. But there isn't a flake in the town."

"Then send Juan to Bodega Central at once for it!" cried Josè, wild with apprehension.

"I doubt if he would find it there either, Padre. But we can try. However, Juan cannot make the trip in less than two days. And I fear Rosendo will not last that long."

Doña Maria sat by the bedside, dumb with grief. Josè wrung his hands in despair. The day drew slowly to a close. The Alcalde had dispatched Juan down to the river to signal any steamer that he should meet, if perchance he might purchase a few grains of the only drug that could save the sick man. Carmen had absented herself during the day; but she returned in time to assist Doña Maria with the evening meal, after which she went at once to her bed.

Late at night, when the sympathizing townsmen had sorrowfully departed and Josè had induced Doña Maria to seek a few moments rest on her petate in the living room, Carmen climbed quietly out of her bed and came to where the priest sat alone with the unconscious Rosendo.

Josè was bending over the delirious man. "Oh, if Jesus were only here now!" he murmured.

"Padre dear."

Josè looked down into the little face beside him.

"People don't die, you know. They don't really die." The little head shook as if to emphasize the words.

Josè was startled. But he put his arm about the child and drew her to him. "Chiquita, why do you say that?" he asked sorrowfully.

"Because God doesn't die, you know," she quickly replied. "And we are like Him, Padre, aren't we?"

"But He calls us to Him, chiquita. And--I guess--He is--is calling your padre Rosendo now."

Does God kill mankind in order to give them life? Is that His way? Death denies God, eternal Life. And--

"Why, no, Padre," returned the innocent child. "He is always here; and we are always with Him, you know. He can not call people away from where He is, can He?"

Lo, I am with you alway, even to the end of the world. The Christ-principle, the saving truth about God and man, is ever present in an uncomprehending world.

Josè knew that there was no material dependence now. Something told him that Rosendo lay dying. There was no physician, no drug, in the isolated little town. There was none but God to save. And He--

But only sinners are taught by priests and preachers to look to God for help. The sick are not so taught. How much more deplorable, then, is their condition than that of the wicked!

"I told God out on the shales this afternoon that I just knew padre Rosendo wouldn't die!" The soft, sweet voice hovered on the silence like celestial melody.

If ye ask anything in my name--in my character--it shall be given you. Carmen asked in the character of the sinless Christ, for her asking was an assertion of what she instinctively knew to be truth, despite the evidence of the physical senses. Her petitions were affirmations of Immanuel--God with us.

"Carmen," whispered the priest hoarsely, "go back to your bed, and know, just know that God is here! Know that He did not make padre Rosendo sick, and that He will not let him die! Know it for him--and for me!"

"Why, Padre, I know that now!" The child looked up into the priest's face with her luminous eyes radiating unshaken trust--a trust that seemed born of understanding. Yea, she knew that all good was there, for God is omnipotent. They had but to stretch forth their hands to touch the robe of His Christ. The healing principle which cleansed the lepers and raised the dead was even with them there in that quiet room. Josè had only to realize it, nothing doubting. Carmen had done her work, and her mind now was stayed on Him. Infinite Intelligence did not know Rosendo as Josè was trying to know him, sick and dying. God is Life--and there is no death!

Carmen was again asleep. Josè sat alone, his open Bible before him and his thought with his God.

Oh, for even a slight conception of Him who is Life! Moses worked "as seeing Him who is invisible." Carmen lived with her eyes on Him, despite her dreary mundane encompassment. And Josè, as he sat there throughout the watches of the night, facing the black terror, was striving to pierce the mist which had gone up from the face of the ground and was separating him from his God. Through the long, dark hours, with the quiet of death upon the desolate chamber, he sat mute before the veil that was "still untaken away."

What was it that kept telling him that Rosendo lay dying before him? Does matter talk? Did the serpent talk to Eve? Do fleshly nerves and frail bodily organs converse with men? Can the externalization of thought report back to the thought itself? Nay, the report came to him from the physical senses--naught else. And they reported--nothing! He was seeing but his own thoughts of mixed good and evil. And they were false, because they testified against God.

Surely God knew Rosendo. But not as the physical senses were trying to make Josè know him, sick and dying. Surely the subjective determines the objective; for as we think, so are we--the Christ said that. From his human standpoint Josè was seeing his thoughts of a dying mortal. And now he was trying to know that those thoughts did not come from God--that they had no authority back of them--that they were children of the "one lie" about God--that they were false, false as hell, and therefore impotent and unreal.

What, then, had he to fear? Nothing, for truth is beyond the reach of personal sense. So God and His ideas, reflected by the real Rosendo, were beyond the reach of evil.

If this were true, then he must clear his own mentality--even as he now knew Carmen had done out on the shales that afternoon. He was no longer dealing with a material Rosendo, but with false beliefs about a son of God. He was handling mental concepts. And to the serpent, error, he was trying to say: "What is your authority?"

If man lives, he never dies. If man is, then he always has been. And he was never born--and never passes into oblivion. A fact never changes. If two and two make four to-day, they always have done so, and always will.

Can good produce evil? Then evil can have no creator. Rosendo, when moved by good, had gone into the wilds of Guamocó on a mission of love. Did evil have power to smite him for his noble sacrifice?

What is this human life of ours? Real existence? No, but a sense of existence--and a false sense, for it postulates a god of evil opposed to the one supreme Creator of all that really is. Then the testimony that said Rosendo must die was cruelly false. And, more, it was powerless--unless Josè himself gave it power.

Did Carmen know that? Had she so reasoned? Assuredly no! But she knew God as Josè had never known Him. And, despite the testimony of the fleshly eyes, she had turned from physical sense to Him.

"It is not practicable!" the world cries in startled protest.

But, behold her life!

Josè had begun to see that discord was the result of unrighteousness, false thought. He began to understand why it was that Jesus always linked disease with sin. His own paradoxical career had furnished ample proof of that. Yet his numberless tribulations were not due solely to his own wrong thinking, but likewise to the wrong thought of others with respect to him, thought which he knew not how to neutralize. And the channels for this false, malicious, carnal thought had been his beloved parents, his uncle, the Archbishop, his tutors, and, in fact, all with whom he had been associated until he came to Simití. There he had found Carmen. And there the false thought had met a check, a reversal. The evil had begun to destroy itself. And he was slowly awaking to find nothing but good.

The night hours flitted through the heavy gloom like spectral acolytes. Rosendo sank into a deep sleep. The steady roll of the frogs in the lake at length died away. A flush stole timidly across the eastern sky.

"Padre dear, he will not die."

It was Carmen's voice that awoke the slumbering priest. The child stood at his side, and her little hand clasped his. Rosendo slept. His chest rose and fell with the rhythmic breathing. Josè looked down upon him. A great lump came into his throat, and his voice trembled as he spoke.

"You are right, chiquita. Go, call your madre Maria now, and I will go home to rest."

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Chapter 13

That day Rosendo left his bed. Two days later he again set out for Guamocó.

"There is gold there, and I must, I will find it!" he repeatedly exclaimed as he pushed his preparations.

The courage of the man was magnificent. On its rebound it carried him over the protest of Doña Maria and the gloomy forebodings of his fellow-townsmen, and launched him again on the desolate trail.

But Josè had uttered no protest. He moved about wrapped in undefinable awe. For he believed he had seen Rosendo lifted from the bed of death. And no one might tell him that it was not by the same power that long ago had raised the dead man of Nain. Carmen had not spoken of the incident again; and something laid a restraint upon Josè's lips.

The eyes of the Alcalde bulged with astonishment when Rosendo entered his store that morning in quest of further supplies.

"Caramba! Go back to your bed, compadre!" he exclaimed, bounding from his chair. "You are walking in your delirium!"

"Na, amigo," replied Rosendo with a smile, "the fever has left me. And now I must have another month's supplies, for I go back to Guamocó as soon as my legs tremble less."

"Caramba! caramba!"

The Alcalde acted as if he were in the presence of a ghost. But at length becoming convinced that Rosendo was there on matters of business, and in his right mind, he checked further expression of wonder and, with a shrug of his fat shoulders, assumed his wonted air of a man of large affairs.

"I can allow you five pesos oro on account of the gold which the Cura brought me yesterday," he said severely. "But that leaves you still owing ten pesos for your first supplies; and thirty if I give you what you ask for now. If you cannot pay this amount when you return, you will have to work it out for me."

His little eyes grew steely and cold. Rosendo well knew what the threat implied. But he did not falter.

"Bien, compadre," he quietly replied, "it will be as you say."

Late that afternoon Juan returned from Bodega Central with a half ounce of quinine. He had made the trip with astonishing celerity, and had arrived at the riverine town just as a large steamer was docking. The purser supplied him with the drug, and he immediately started on his return.

The Alcalde set out to deliver the drug to Rosendo; but not finding him at home, looked in at the parish house. Josè and Carmen were deep in their studies.

"A thousand pardons, Señor Padre, but I have the medicine you ordered for Rosendo," placing the small package upon the table.

"You may set it down against me, Don Mario," said Josè.

"No!" exclaimed the Alcalde, "this must not be charged to the parish!"

"I said to me, amigo," replied the priest firmly.

"It is the same thing, Padre!" blurted the petty merchant.

The priest's anger began to rise, but he restrained it. "Padre Diego is no longer here, you must remember," he said quietly.

"But the parish pays your debts; and it would not pay the full value of this and Juan's trip," was the coarse retort.

"Very well, then, Don Mario," answered Josè. "You may charge it to Rosendo. But tell me first how much you will place against him for it."

The Alcalde reflected a moment. "The quinine will be five pesos oro, and Juan's trip three additional. Is it not worth it?" he demanded, blustering before Josè's steady gaze. "If Rosendo had been really sick it would have saved his life!"

"Then you do not believe he was dangerously ill?" asked Josè with some curiosity.

"He couldn't have been really sick and be around to-day--could he?" the Alcalde demanded.

The priest glanced at Carmen. She met the look with a smile.

"No," he said slowly, "not really sick." Then he quickly added:

"If you charge Rosendo eight pesos for that bit of quinine, Don Mario, you and I are no longer working together, for I do not take base advantage of any man's necessities."

The Alcalde became confused. He was going too far. "Na, Señor Padre," he said hastily, with a sheepish grin. "I will leave the quinine with you, and do you settle the account with Juan." With which he beat a disordered retreat.

Josè was thankful that, for a few months, at least, he would have a powerful hold on this man through his rapacity. What would happen when the Alcalde at length learned that Rosendo was not searching for Don Ignacio's lost mine, he did not care to conjecture. That matter was in other hands than his, and he was glad to leave it there. He asked now only to see each single step as he progressed.

"Did Don Mario say that stuff would cure padre Rosendo?" asked Carmen, pointing to the quinine.

"Yes, chiquita."

"Why did he say so, Padre?"

"Because he really believed it, carita."

"But what is it, Padre--and how can it cure sick people?"

"It is the bark of a certain tree, little one, that people take as medicine. It is a sort of poison which people take to counteract another poison. A great school of medicine is founded upon that principle, Carmen," he added. And then he fell to wondering if it really was a principle, after all. If so, it was evil overcoming evil. But would the world believe that both he and Rosendo had been cured by--what? Faith? True prayer? By the operation of a great, almost unknown principle? Or would it scoff at such an idea?

But what cared he for that? He saw himself and Rosendo restored, and that was enough. He turned to the child. "They think the quinine cures fever, little one," he resumed.

"And does it?" The little face wore an anxious look as she put the question.

"They think it does, chiquita," replied the priest, wondering what he should say.

"But it is just because they think so that they get well, isn't it?" the girl continued.

"I guess it is, child."

"And if they thought right they would be cured without this--is it not so, Padre dear?"

"I am sure of it--now," replied the priest. "In fact, if they always kept their thoughts right I am sure they would never be sick."

"You mean, if they always thought about God," the child amended.

"Yes--I mean just that. If they knew, really knew, that God is everywhere, that He is good, and that He never makes people sick, they would always be well."

"Of course, Padre. It is only their bad thoughts that make them sick. And even then they are not really sick," the child concluded. "They think they are, and they think they die--and then they wake up and find it isn't so at all."

Had the child made this remark to him a few weeks before, he had crushed it with the dull, lifeless, conventional formulæ of human belief. To-day in penitent humility he was trying to walk hand in hand with her the path she trod. For he was learning from her that righteousness is salvation. A few weeks ago he had lain at death's door, yearning to pass the portal. Yesterday he believed he had again seen the dark angel, hovering over the stricken Rosendo. But in each case something had intervened. Perhaps that "something not ourselves that makes for righteousness," the unknown, almost unacknowledged force that ceases not to combat evil in the human consciousness. Clinging to his petty egoisms; hugging close his shabby convictions of an evil power opposed to God; stuffed with worldly learning and pride of race and intellect, in due season, as he sank under the burden of his imaginings, the veil had been drawn aside for a fleeting moment--and his soul had frozen with awe at what it beheld!

For, back of the density of the human concept, the fleeting, inexplicable medley of good and evil which constitutes the phenomenon of mortal existence, he had seen God! He had seen Him as all-inclusive mind, omnipotent, immanent, perfect, eternal. He had caught a moment's glimpse of the tremendous Presence which holds all wisdom, all knowledge, yet knows no evil. He had seen a blinding flash of that "something" toward which his life had strained and yearned. With it had come a dim perception of the falsity of the testimony of physical sense, and the human life that is reared upon it. And though he counted not himself to have apprehended as yet, he was struggling, even with thanksgiving, up out of his bondage, toward the gleam. The shafts of error hissed about him, and black doubt and chill despair still felled him with their awful blows. But he walked with Carmen. With his hand in hers, he knew he was journeying toward God.

On the afternoon before his departure Rosendo entered the parish house in apprehension. "I have lost my escapulario, Padre!" he exclaimed. "The string caught in the brush, and the whole thing was torn from my neck. I--I don't like to go back without one," he added dubiously.

"Ah, then you have nothing left but Christ," replied Josè with fine irony. "Well, it is of no consequence."

"But, Padre, it had been blessed by the Bishop!"

"Well, don't worry. Why, the Holy Father himself once blessed this republic of ours, and now it is about the most unfortunate country in the whole world! But you are a good Catholic, Rosendo, so you need not fear."

Rosendo was, indeed, a good Catholic. He accepted the faith of his fathers without reserve. He had never known any other. Simple, superstitious, and great of heart, he held with rigid credulity to all that had been taught him in the name of religion. But until Josè's advent he had feared and hated priests. Nevertheless, his faith in signs and miracles and the healing power of blessed images was child-like. Once when he saw in the store of Don Mario a colored chromo of Venus and Cupid, a cheap print that had come with goods imported from abroad, he had devoutly crossed himself, believing it to be the Virgin Mary with the Christ-child.

"But I will fix you up, Rosendo," said Josè, noting the man's genuine anxiety. "Have Doña Maria cut out a cloth heart and fasten it to a stout cord. I will take it to the church altar and bless it before the image of the Virgin. You told me once that the Virgin was the Rincón family's patron, you know."

"Bueno!" ejaculated the pleased Rosendo, as he hastened off to execute the commission.

Several times before Rosendo went back to Guamocó Josè had sought to draw him into conversation about his illness, and to get his view of the probable cause of his rapid recovery. But the old man seemed loath to dwell on the topic, and Josè could get little from him. At any mention of the episode a troubled look would come over his face, and he would fall silent, or would find an excuse to leave the presence of the priest.

"Rosendo," Josè abruptly remarked to him as he was busy with his pack late the night before his departure, "will you take with you the quinine that Juan brought?"

Rosendo looked up quickly. "I can not, Padre."

"And why?"

"On account of Carmen."

"But what has she to do with it, amigo?" Josè asked in surprise.

Rosendo looked embarrassed. "I--Bien, Padre, I promised her I would not."

"When?"

"To-day, Padre."

Josè reflected on the child's unusual request. Then:

"But if you fell sick up in Guamocó, Rosendo, what could you do?"

"Quien sabe, Padre! Perhaps I could gather herbs and make a tea--I don't know. She didn't say anything about that." He looked at Josè and laughed. Then, in an anxious tone:

"Padre, what can I do? The little Carmen asks me not to take the quinine, and I can not refuse her. But I may get sick. I--I have always taken medicine when I needed it and could get it. But the only medicine we have in Simití is the stuff that some of the women make--teas and drinks brewed from roots and bark. I have never seen a doctor here, nor any real medicines but quinine. And even that is hard to get, as you know. I used to make a salve out of the livers of mápina snakes--it was for the rheumatism--I suffered terribly when I worked in the cold waters in Guamocó. I think the salve helped me. But if I should get the disease now, would Carmen let me make the salve again?"

He bent over his outfit for some moments. "She says if I trust God I will not get sick," he at length resumed. "She says I must not think about it. Caramba! What has that to do with it? People get sick whether they think about it or not. Do you believe, Padre, this new escapulario will protect me?"

The man's words reflected the strange mixture of mature and childish thought typical of these untutored jungle folk, in which longing for the good is so heavily overshadowed by an educated belief in the power of evil.

"Rosendo," said Josè, finding at last his opportunity, "tell me, do you think you were seriously ill day before yesterday?"

"Quien sabe, Padre! Perhaps it was only the terciana, after all."

"Well, then," pursuing another tack, "do you think I was very sick that day when I rushed to the lake--?"

"Caramba, Padre! But you were turning cold--you hardly breathed--we all thought you must die--all but Carmen!"

"And what cured me, Rosendo?" the priest asked in a low, steady voice.

"Why--Padre, I can not say."

"Nor can I, positively, my friend. But I do know that the little Carmen said I should not die. And she said the same of you when, as I would swear, you were in the fell clutches of the death angel himself."

"Padre--" Rosendo's eyes were large, and his voice trembled in awesome whisper--"is she--the little Carmen--is she--an hada?"

"A witch? Hombre! No!" cried Josè, bursting into a laugh at the perturbed features of the older man. "No, amigo, she is not an hada! Let us say, rather, as you first expressed it to me, she is an angel--and let us appreciate her as such.

"But," he continued, "I tell you in all seriousness, there are things that such as you and I, with our limited outlook, have never dreamed of; and that child seems to have penetrated the veil that hides spiritual things from the material vision of men like us. Let us wait, and if we value that 'something' which she seems to possess and know how to use, let us cut off our right hands before we yield to the temptation to place any obstacle in the way of her development along the lines which she has chosen, or which some unseen Power has chosen for her. It is for you and me, Rosendo, to stand aside and watch, while we protect her, if haply we may be privileged some day to learn her secret in full. You and I are the unlearned, while she is filled with wisdom. The world would say otherwise, and would condemn us as fools. Thank God we are out of the world here in Simití!"

He choked back the inrush of memories and brushed away a tear.

"Rosendo," he concluded, "be advised. If Carmen told you not to think of sickness while in Guamocó, then follow her instructions. It is not the child, but a mighty Power that is speaking through her. Of that I have long been thoroughly convinced. And I am as thoroughly convinced that that same Power has appointed you and me her protectors and her followers. You and I have a mighty compact--"

"Hombre!" interrupted Rosendo, clasping the priest's hand, "my life is hers--you know it--she has only to speak, and I obey! Is it not so?"

"Assuredly, Rosendo," returned Josè. "And now a final word. Let us keep solely to ourselves what we have learned of her. Our plans are well formulated. Let us adhere to them in strict silence. I know not whither we are being led. But we are in the hands of that 'something' that speaks and works through her--and we are satisfied. Are we not?"

They clasped hands again. The next morning Rosendo set his face once more toward the emerald hills of Guamocó.

As the days passed, Josè became more silent and thoughtful. But it was a silence bred of wonder and reverence, as he dwelt upon the things that had been revealed to him. Who and what was this unusual child, so human, and yet so strangely removed from the world's plane of thought? A child who understood the language of the birds, and heard the grass grow--a child whom Torquemada would have burnt as a witch, and yet with whom he could not doubt the Christ dwelt.

Josè often studied her features while she bent over her work. He spent hours, too, poring over the little locket which had been found among her mother's few effects. The portrait of the man was dim and soiled. Josè wondered if the poor woman's kisses and tears had blurred it. The people of Badillo said she had died with it pressed to her lips. But its condition rendered futile all speculation in regard to its original. That of the mother, however, was still fresh and clear. Josè conjectured that she must have been either wholly Spanish, or one of the more refined and cultured women of Colombia. And she had doubtless been very young and beautiful when the portrait was made. With what dark tragedy was that little locket associated? Would it ever yield its secret?

But Carmen's brown curls and light skin--whence came they? Were they wholly Latin? Josè had grave doubts. And her keen mind, and deep religious instinct? Who knew? He could only be sure that they had come from a source far, far above her present lowly environment. With that much he must for the present be content.

* * * * *

Another month unfolded its length in quiet days, and Rosendo again returned. Not ill this time, nor even much exhausted. Nor did the little leathern pouch contain more than a few pesos in gold dust. But determination was written grim and trenchant upon his black face as he strode into the parish house and extended his great hand to the priest.

"I have only come for more supplies, Padre," he said. "I have some three pesos worth of gold. Most of this I got around Culata, near Don Felipe's quartz vein, the Andandodias. Caramba, what veins in those hills! If we had money to build a mill, and knew how to catch the gold, we would not need to wash the river sands that have been gone over again and again for hundreds of years!"

But Josè's thoughts were of the Alcalde. He determined to send for him at once, while Rosendo was removing the soil of travel.

Don Mario came and estimated the weight of the gold by his hand. Then he coolly remarked: "Bien, Señor Padre, I will send Rosendo to my hacienda to-morrow to cut cane and make panela."

"And how is that, Don Mario?" inquired Josè.

The Alcalde began to bluster. "He owes me thirty pesos oro, less this, if you wish me to keep it. I see no likelihood that he can ever repay me. And so he must now work out his debt."

"How long will that take him, amigo?"

"Quien sabe? Señor Padre," the Alcalde replied, his eyes narrowing.

The priest braced himself, and his face assumed an expression that it had not worn before he came to Simití. "Look you now, my friend," he began in tones pregnant with meaning. "I have made some inquiries regarding your system of peonage. I find that you pay your peones from twenty to thirty cents a day for their hard labor, and at the same time charge them as much a day for food. Or you force them to buy from you tobacco and rum at prices which keep them always in your debt. Is it not so?"

"Na, Padre, you have been misinformed," the Alcalde demurred, with a deprecating gesture.

"I have not. Lázaro Ortiz is now working for you on that system. And daily he becomes more deeply indebted to you, is it not so?"

"But, Padre--"

"It is useless for you to deny it, Don Mario, for I have facts. Now listen to me. Let us understand each other clearly, nor attempt to dissimulate. That iniquitous system of peonage has got to cease in my parish!"

"Caramba, but Padre Diego had peones!" the Alcalde exploded.

"And he was a wicked man," added Josè. Then he continued:

"I know not what information you may have from the Bishop regarding me, yet this I tell you: I shall report you to Bogotá, and I will band the citizens of Simití together to drive you out of town, if you do not at once release Lázaro, and put an end to this wicked practice. The people will follow if I lead!"

It was a bold stroke, and the priest knew that he was standing upon shaky ground. But the man before him was superstitious, untutored and child-like. A show of courage, backed by an assertion of authority, might produce the desired effect. Moreover, Josè knew that he was in the right. And right must prevail!

Don Mario glared at him, while an ugly look spread over his coarse features. The priest went on:

"Lázaro has long since worked out his debt, and you shall release him at once. As to Rosendo, he must have the supplies he needs to return to Guamocó. You understand?"

"Caramba!" Don Mario's face was purple with rage. "You think you can tell me what to do--me, the Alcalde!" he volleyed. "You think you can make us change our customs! Caramba! You are no better than the priest Diego, whom you try to make me believe so wicked! Hombre, you were driven out of Cartagena yourself! A nice sort to be teaching a little girl--!"

"Stop, man!" thundered Josè, striding toward him with upraised arm.

Don Mario fell back in his chair and quailed before the mountainous wrath of the priest.

A shadow fell across the open doorway. Glancing up, Josè saw Carmen. For a moment the girl stood looking in wonder at the angry men. Then she went quickly to the priest and slipped a hand into his. A feeling of shame swept over him, and he went back to his chair. Carmen leaned against him, but she appeared to be confused. Silence fell upon them all.

"Cucumbra doesn't fight any more, Padre," the girl at length began in hesitation. "He and the puppy play together all the time now. He has learned a lot, and now he loves the puppy."

So had the priest learned much. He recalled the lesson. "Bien," he said in soft tones, "I think we became a bit too earnest, Don Mario. We are good friends, is it not so? And we are working together for the good of Simití. But to have good come to us, we must do good to others."

He went to his trunk and took out a wallet. "Here are twenty pesos, Don Mario." It was all he had in the world, but he did not tell the Alcalde so. "Take them on Rosendo's account. Let him have the new supplies he needs, and I will be his surety. And, friend, you are going to let me prove to you with time that the report you have from Cartagena regarding me is false."

Don Mario's features relaxed somewhat when his hand closed over the grimy bills.

"Do not forget, amigo," added Josè, assuming an air of mystery as he pursued the advantage, "that you and I are associated in various business matters, is it not so?"

The Alcalde's mouth twitched, but finally extended in an unctuous grin. After all, the priest was a descendant of the famous Don Ignacio, and--who knew?--he might have resources of which the Alcalde little dreamed.

"Cierto, Padre!" he cried, rising to depart. "And we will yet uncover La Libertad! You guarantee Rosendo's debt? Bien, he shall have the supplies. But I think he should take another man with him. Lázaro might do, no?"

It was a gracious and unlooked for condescension.

"Send Lázaro to me, Don Mario," said Josè. "We will find use for him, I think."

And thus Rosendo was enabled to depart a third time to the solitudes of Guamocó.

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Chapter 14

With Rosendo again on the trail, Josè and Carmen bent once more to their work. Within a few days the grateful Lázaro was sent to Rosendo's hacienda, biding the time when the priest should have a larger commission to bestow upon him. With the advent of the dry season, peace settled over the sequestered town, while its artless folk drowsed away the long, hot days and danced at night in the silvery moonlight to the twang of the guitar and the drone of the amorous canzonet. Josè was deeply grateful for these days of unbroken quiet, and for the opportunity they afforded him to probe the child's thought and develop his own. Day after day he taught her. Night after night he visited the members of his little parish, getting better acquainted with them, administering to their simple needs, talking to them in the church edifice on the marvels of the outside world, and then returning to his little cottage to prepare by the feeble rays of his flickering candle Carmen's lessons for the following day. He had no texts, save the battered little arithmetic; and even that was abandoned as soon as Carmen had mastered the decimal system. Thereafter he wrote out each lesson for her, carefully wording it that it might contain nothing to shock her acute sense of the allness of God, and omitting from the vocabulary every reference to evil, to failure, disaster, sin and death. In mathematics he was sure of his ground, for there he dealt wholly with the metaphysical. But history caused him many an hour of perplexity in his efforts to purge it of the dross of human thought. If Carmen were some day to go out into the world she must know the story of its past. And yet, as Josè faced her in the classroom and looked down into her unfathomable eyes, in whose liquid depths there seemed to dwell a soul of unexampled purity, he could not bring himself even to mention the sordid events in the development of the human race which manifested the darker elements of the carnal mind. Perhaps, after all, she might never go out into the world. He had not the faintest idea how such a thing could be accomplished. And so under his tutelage the child grew to know a world of naught but brightness and beauty, where love and happiness dwelt ever with men, and wicked thoughts were seen as powerless and transient, harmless to the one who knew God to be "everywhere." The man taught the child with the sad remembrance of his own seminary training always before him, and with a desire, amounting almost to frenzy, to keep from her every limiting influence and benumbing belief of the carnal mind.

The decimal system mastered, Carmen was inducted into the elements of algebra.

"How funny," she exclaimed, laughing, "to use letters for numbers!"

"They are only general symbols, little one," he explained. "Symbols are signs, or things that stand for other things."

Then came suddenly into his mind how the great Apostle Paul taught that the things we see, or think we see, are themselves but symbols, reflections as from a mirror, and how we must make them out as best we can for the present, knowing that, in due season, we shall see the realities for which these things stand to the human mind. He knew that back of the mathematical symbols stood the eternal, unvarying, indestructible principles which govern their use. And he had begun to see that back of the symbols, the phenomena, of human existence stands the great principle--infinite God--the eternal mind. In the realm of mathematics the principles are omnipotent for the solution of problems--omnipotent in the hands of the one who understands and uses them aright. And is not God the omnipotent principle to the one who understands and uses Him aright in the solving of life's intricate problems?

"They are so easy when you know how, Padre dear," said Carmen, referring to her tasks.

"But there will be harder ones, chiquita."

"Yes, Padre. But then I shall know more about the rules that you call principles."

She took up each problem with confidence. Josè watched her eagerly. "You do not know what the answer will be, chiquita," he ventured.

"No, Padre dear. But I don't care. If I use the rule in the right way I shall get the correct answer, shall I not? Look!" she cried joyfully, as she held up her paper with the completed solution of a problem.

"But how do you know that it is correct?" he queried.

"Why--well, we can prove it--can't we?" She looked up at him questioningly. Then she bent again over her task and worked assiduously for some moments in silence.

"There! I worked it back again to the starting point. And it is right."

"And in proving it, little one, you have proved the principle and established its correctness. Is it not so, chiquita?"

"Yes, Padre, it shows that the rule is right."

The child lapsed into silence, while Josè, as was becoming his wont, awaited the result of her meditation. Then:

"Padre dear, there are rules for arithmetic, and algebra, and--and for everything, are there not?"

"Yes, child, for music, for art, for everything. We can do nothing correctly without using principles."

"And, Padre, there are principles that tell us how to live?" she queried.

"What is your opinion on that point, queridita?"

"Just one principle, I guess, Padre dear," she finally ventured, after a pause.

"And that, little one?"

"Just God."

"And God is--?" Josè began, then hesitated. The Apostle John had dwelt with the Master. What had he urged so often upon the dull ears of his timid followers?

The child looked up at the priest with a smile whose tenderness dissolved the rising clouds of doubt.

"And God is--love," he finished softly.

"That's it, Padre!" The child clapped her little hands and laughed aloud.

Love! Jesus had said, "I and my Father are one." Having seen him, the world has seen the Father. But Jesus was the highest manifestation of love that tired humanity has ever known. "Love God!" he had cried in tones that have echoed through the centuries. "Love thy neighbor!" Aye, love everything, everybody! Apply the Principle of principles, Love, to every task, every problem, every situation, every condition! For what is the Christ-principle but Love? All things are possible to him who loves, for Love casteth out fear, the root of every discord. Men ask why God remains hidden from them, why their understanding of Him is dim. They forget that God is Love. They forget that to know Him they must first love their fellow-men. And so the world goes sorrowfully on, hating, cheating, grasping, abusing; still wondering dully why men droop and stumble, why they consume with disease, and, with the despairing conviction that God is unknowable, sinking at last into oblivion.

Josè, if he knew aught, knew that Carmen greatly loved--loved all things deeply and tenderly as reflections of her immanent God. She had loved the hideous monster that had crept toward her as she sat unguarded on the lake's rim. Unguarded? Not so, for the arms of Love were there about her. She had loved God--good--with unshaken fealty when Rosendo lay stricken. She had known that Love could not manifest in death when he himself had been dragged from the lake that burning afternoon a few weeks before.

"God is the rule, isn't He, Padre dear?" The child's unexampled eyes glowed like burning coals. "And we can prove Him, too," she continued confidently.

Prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing that there shall not be room enough to receive it.

Prove Him, O man, that He is Love, and that Love, casting out hate and fear, solves life's every problem! But first--Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house. Bring your whole confidence, your trust, your knowledge of the allness of good, and the nothingness of evil. Bring, too, your every earthly hope, every mad ambition, every corroding fear, and carnal belief; lay them down at the doorway of mine storehouse, and behold their nothingness!

As Carmen approached her simple algebraic problems Josè saw the working of a rule infinite in its adaptation. She knew not what the answers should be, yet she took up each problem with supreme confidence, knowing that she possessed and rightly understood the rule for correctly solving it. She knew that speculation regarding the probable results was an idle waste of time. And she likewise knew instinctively that fear of inability to solve them would paralyze her efforts and insure defeat at the outset.

Nor could she force solutions to correspond to what she might think they ought to be--as mankind attempt to force the solving of their life problems to correspond to human views. She was glad to work out her problems in the only way they could be solved. Love, humility, obedience, enabled her to understand and correctly apply the principle to her tasks. The results were invariable--harmony and exceeding joy.

Josè had learned another lesson. Again that little hand had softly swept his harp of life. And again he breathed in unison with its vibrating chords a deep "Thank God!"

"Padre dear." Carmen looked up from a brown study. "What does zero really mean?"

"It stands for nothing, child," the priest made reply, wondering what was to follow this introduction.

"And the minus sign in algebra is different from the one in arithmetic. What does it mean?"

"Less than nothing."

"But, Padre, if God is all, how can you say there is nothing, or less than nothing?"

The priest had his answer ready. "They are only human ways of thinking, chiquita. The plus sign always represents something positive; the minus, something negative. The one is the opposite of the other."

"Is there an opposite to everything, Padre?"

The priest hesitated. Then:

"No, chiquita--not a real opposite. But," he added hastily, "we may suppose an opposite to everything."

A moment's pause ensued. "That is what makes people sick and unhappy, isn't it, Padre?"

"What, child?" in unfeigned surprise.

"Supposing an opposite to God. Supposing that there can be nothing, when He is everywhere. Doesn't all trouble come from just supposing things that are not so?"

Whence came such questions to the mind of this child? And why did they invariably lead to astonishing deductions in his own? Why did he often give a great start as it dawned again upon him that he was not talking to one of mature age, but to a babe?

He tore a strip from the paper in his hand. Relatively the paper had lost in size and quantity, and there was a distinct separation. Absolutely, such a thing was an impossibility. The plus was always positive and real; the minus was always relative, and stood for unreality. And so it was throughout the entire realm of thought. Every real thing has its suppositional opposite. The difficulty is that the human mind, through long ages of usage, has come to regard the opposite as just as real as the thing itself. The opposite of love is hate; of health, disease; of good, evil; of the real, the counterfeit. God is positive--Truth. His opposite, the negative, is supposition. Oh, stupid, blundering, dull-eared humanity, not to have realized that this was just what Jesus said when he defined evil as the lie about God! No wonder the prophet proclaimed salvation to be righteousness, right thinking! But would gross humanity have understood the Master better if he had defined it this way? No, they would have stoned him on the spot!

Josè knew that when both he and Rosendo lay sick unto death Carmen's thought had been positive, while theirs had been of the opposite sign. Was her pure thought stronger than their disbelief? Evidently so. Was this the case with Jesus? And with the prophets before him, whom the world laughed to scorn? The inference from Scripture is plain. What, then, is the overcoming of evil but the driving out of entrenched human beliefs?

Again Josè came back to the thought of Principle. Confucius had said that heaven was principle. And heaven is harmony. But had evil any principle? Mankind are accustomed to speak lightly and knowingly of their "principles." But in their search for the Philosopher's Stone they have overlooked the Principle which the Master used to effect his mighty works--"that Mind which was in Christ Jesus." The Principle of Jesus was God. And, again, God is Love.

The word evil is a comprehensive term, including errors of every sort. And yet, in the world's huge category of evils is there a single one that stands upon a definite principle? Josè had to admit to himself that there was not. Errors in mathematics result from ignorance of principles, or from their misapplication. But are the errors real and permanent?

"Padre, when I make a mistake, and then go back and do the problem over and get it right, what becomes of the mistake?"

Josè burst out laughing at the tremendous question. Carmen joined in heartily.

"But, Padre," she pursued, "there are rules for solving problems; but there isn't any rule or principle for making mistakes, is there?"

"Surely not, child!" Josè replied.

"And if I always knew the truth about things, I couldn't make mistakes, could I?"

"No."

Josè waited for her further comments. They came after a brief meditation.

"Well, then, God doesn't know anything about mistakes--does He?"

"No, chiquita."

"And He knows everything."

"Yes."

"Then, Padre dear, nobody can know anything about mistakes. People just think they can--don't they?"

Josè thought hard for a few moments. "Chiquita, can you know that two and two are seven?"

"Why, Padre dear, how funny!"

"Yes--it does seem strange--now. And yet, I used to think I could know things just as absurd."

"Why, what was that, Padre?"

"I thought, chiquita, that I could know evil--something that God does not and can not know."

"But--could you, Padre?"

"No, child. It is absolutely impossible to know--to really know--error of any sort."

"If we knew it, Padre, it would have a rule; or as you say, a principle, no?"

"Exactly, child."

"And, since God is everywhere, He would have to be its principle."

"Just the point. Now take another of the problems, chiquita, and work on it while I think about these things," he said, assigning another of the simple tasks to the child.

For an idea was running through the man's thought, and he had traced it back to the explorer in Cartagena. Reason and logic supported the thought of God as mind; of the creation as the unfolding of this mind's ideas; and of man as the greatest idea of God. It also seemed to show that the physical senses afforded no testimony at all, and that human beings saw, heard and felt only in thought, in belief. On this basis everything reduced to a mental plane, and man became a mentality. But what sort of mentality was that which Josè saw all about him in sinful, sick and dying humanity? The human man is demonstrably mortal--and he is a sort of mind--ah, yes, that was it! The explorer had said that up in that great country north there were those who referred to this sort of mentality as "mortal mind." Josè thought it an excellent term. For, if the mortal man is a mind at all, he assuredly is a mortal mind.

And the mortal mind is the opposite of that mind which is the eternal God. But God can have no real opposite. Any so-called opposite to Him must be a supposition--or, as Jesus defined it, the lie about Him. This lie seems to counterfeit the eternal mind that is God. It seems to pose as a creative principle, and to simulate the powers and attributes of God himself. It assumes to create its universe of matter, the direct opposite of the spiritual universe. And, likewise, it assumes to create its man, its own idea of itself, and hence the direct opposite of the real man, the divine idea of God, made in His own image and likeness.

Josè rose and went to the doorway. "Surely," he murmured low, "the material personality, called man, which sins, suffers and dies, is not real man, but his counterfeit, a creation of God's opposite, the so-called mortal mind. It must be a part of the lie about God, the 'mist' that went up from the ground and watered the whole face of the earth, leaving the veil of supposition which obscures God from human sight. It is this sort of man and this sort of universe that I have always seen about me, and that the world refers to as human beings, or mortals, and the physical universe. And yet I have been looking only at my false thoughts of man."

At that moment he caught sight of Juan running toward him from the lake. The lad had just returned from Bodega Central.

"Padre," he exclaimed breathlessly, "there is war in the country again! The revolution has broken out, and they are fighting all along the river!"

Josè turned into the house and clasped Carmen in his arms.

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