s childish
dreams swept over him in great waves. The soft, sweet cadences rose
and fell. His own heart swelled and pulsated with them, and his barren
soul once more surged under the impulse of a deep, potential desire to
manifest itself, its true self, unhampered at last by limitation and
convention, unfettered by superstition, human creeds and false
ambition. Then the inevitable reaction set in; a sickening sense of
the futility of his longing settled over him, and he turned his face
to the wall, while hot tears streamed over his sunken cheeks.

Again through his wearied brain echoed the familiar admonition,
"Occupy till I come." Always the same invariable response to his
strained yearnings. The sweet voice in the adjoining room floated in
through the dusty palm door. It spread over his perturbed thought like
oil on troubled waters. Perhaps it was the child singing. At this
thought the sense of awe seemed to settle upon him again. A child--a
babe--had said that he should live! If a doctor had said it he would
have believed. But a child--absurd! It was a dream! But no; Rosendo
had said it; and there was no reason to doubt him. But what had this
child to do with it? Nothing! And yet--was that wholly true? Then
whence his sensations when first he saw her? Whence that feeling of
standing in the presence of a great mystery? "Out of the mouths of
babes and sucklings--" Foolishness! To be sure, the child may have
said he should not die; but if he were to live--which God forbid!--his
own recuperative powers would restore him. Rosendo's lively
imagination certainly had exaggerated the incident.

Exhausted by his mental efforts, and lulled by the low singing, the
priest sank into fitful slumber. As he slept he dreamed. He was
standing alone in a great desert. Darkness encompassed him, and a
fearful loneliness froze his soul. About him lay bleaching bones.
Neither trees nor vegetation broke the dull monotony of the cheerless
scene. Nothing but waste, unutterably dreary waste, over which a chill
wind tossed the tinkling sand in fitful gusts. In terror he cried
aloud. The desert mocked his hollow cry. The darkness thickened. Again
he called, his heart sinking with despair.

Then, over the desolate waste, through the heavy gloom, a voice seemed
borne faint on the cold air, "Occupy till I come!" He sank to his
knees. His straining eyes caught the feeble glint of a light, but at
an immeasurable distance. Again he called; and again