ve rose garden,
the pride of the little Carmen.

Dona Maria, wife of Rosendo, was bending over the primitive fireplace,
busy with her matutinal duties, having just dusted the ashes from a
corn _arepa_ which she had prepared for her consort's simple luncheon.
She was a woman well into the autumn of life; but her form possessed
something of the elegance of the Spanish dames of the colonial period;
her countenance bore an expression of benevolence, which emanated
from a gentle and affectionate heart; and her manner combined both
dignity and suavity. She greeted the priest tenderly, and expressed
mingled surprise and joy that he felt able to leave his bed so soon.
But as her eyes caught Rosendo's meaning glance, and then turned to
the child, they seemed to indicate a full comprehension of the
situation.

The rose garden consisted of a few square feet of black earth,
bordered by bits of shale, and seemingly scarce able to furnish
nourishment for the three or four little bushes. But, though small,
these were blooming in profusion.

"Padre Rosendo did this!" exclaimed the delighted girl. "Every night
he brings water from _La Cienaga_ for them!"

Rosendo smiled patronizingly upon the child; but Jose saw in the
glance of his argus eyes a tenderness and depth of affection for her
which bespoke nothing short of adoration.

Carmen bent over the roses, fondling and kissing them, and addressing
them endearing names.

"She calls them God's kisses," whispered Rosendo to the priest.

At that moment a low growl was heard. Jose turned quickly and
confronted a gaunt dog, a wild breed, with eyes fixed upon the priest
and white fangs showing menacingly beneath a curling lip.

"Oh, Cucumbra!" cried the child, rushing to the beast and throwing her
arms about its shaggy neck. "Haven't I told you to love everybody? And
is that the way to show it? Now kiss the _Cura's_ hand, for he loves
you."

The brute sank at her feet. Then as she took the priest's hand and
held it to the dog's mouth, he licked it with his rough tongue.

The priest's brain was now awhirl. He stood gazing at the child as if
fascinated. Through his jumbled thought there ran an insistent strain,
"He that hath seen me hath seen the Father. The Father dwelleth in me
and I in Him." He did not associate these words with the Nazarene now,
but with the barefoot girl before him. Again within the farthest
depths of his soul he heard the soft note of a vibrating chord--that