of
mortals have never apprehended it. He turned again to the man sitting
beside his bed.

"Rosendo--where is she?"

"Asleep, Padre," pointing to the other bed. "But we must not wake
her," he admonished quickly, as the priest again sought to rise; "we
will talk of her to-morrow. I think--"

Rosendo stopped abruptly and looked at the priest as if he would
fathom the inmost nature of the man. Then he continued uncertainly:

"I--I may have some things to say to you to-morrow--if you are
well enough to hear them. But I will think about it to-night,
and--if--_Bien_! I will think about it."

Rosendo rose slowly, as if weighted with heavy thoughts, and went out
into the living room. Presently he returned with a rude, homemade
broom and began to sweep a space on the dirt floor in the corner
opposite Jose. This done, he spread out a light straw mat for his
bed.

"The senora is preparing you a bowl of chicken broth and rice, Padre,"
he said. "The little Carmen saved a hen for you when you should awake.
She has fed it all the week on rice and goat's milk. She said she knew
you would wake up hungry."

Jose's eyes had closely followed Rosendo's movements, although he
seemed not to hear his words. Suddenly he broke forth in protest.

"Rosendo," he cried, "have I your bed? And do you sleep there on the
floor? I cannot permit this!"

"Say nothing, Padre," replied Rosendo, gently forcing Jose back again
upon his bed. "My house is yours."

"But--the senora, your wife--where does she sleep?"

"She has her _petate_ in the kitchen," was the quiet answer.

Only the two poor beds, which were occupied by the priest and the
child! And Rosendo and his good wife had slept on the hard dirt floor
for a week! Jose's eyes dimmed when he realized the extent of their
unselfish hospitality. And would they continue to sleep thus on the
ground, with nothing beneath them but a thin straw mat, as long as he
might choose to remain with them? Aye, he knew that they would,
uncomplainingly. For these are the children of the "valley of the
pleasant 'yes.'"

Jose awoke the next morning with a song echoing in his ears. He had
dreamed of singing; and as consciousness slowly returned, the
dream-song became real. It floated in from the living room on a clear,
sweet soprano. When a child he had heard such voices in the choir loft
of the great Seville cathedral, and he had thought that angels were
singing. As he lay now listening to it, memories of hi