ropped to a whisper.

"--she is like--God. And she knows Him better than she knows me."

Jose's head slowly sank upon his breast. The gloom within the musty
church was thick; and the bats stirred restlessly among the dusty
rafters overhead. Outside, the relentless heat poured down upon the
deserted streets.

"Padre," Rosendo resumed. "In the _calentura_ you talked of wonderful
things. You spoke of kings and popes and foreign lands, of beautiful
cities and great marvels of which we know nothing. It was wonderful!
And you recited beautiful poems--but often in other tongues than ours.
Padre, you must be very learned. I listened, and was astonished, for
we are so ignorant here in Simiti, oh, so ignorant! We have no
schools, and our poor little children grow up to be only _peones_ and
fishermen. But--the little Carmen--ah, she has a mind! Padre--"

Again he lapsed into silence, as if fearful to ask the boon.

"Yes, Rosendo, yes," Jose eagerly reassured him. "Go on."

Rosendo turned full upon the priest and spoke rapidly. "Padre, will
you teach the little Carmen what you know? Will you make her a strong,
learned woman, and fit her to do big things in the world--and
then--then--"

"Yes, Rosendo?"

"--then get her away from Simiti? She does not belong here, Padre.
And--?" his voice sank to a hoarse whisper--"will you help me keep her
from the Church?"

Jose sat staring at the man with dilating eyes.

"Padre, she has her own Church. It is her heart."

He leaned over and laid a hand upon the priest's knee. His dark eyes
seemed to burn like glowing coals. His whispered words were fraught
with a meaning which Jose would some day learn.

"Padre, _that_ must be left alone!"

A long silence fell upon the two men, the one massive of frame and
black of face, but with a mind as simple as a child's and a heart as
white as the snow that sprinkled his raven locks--the other a
youth in years, but bowed with disappointment and suffering; yet now
listening with hushed breath to the words that rolled with a mighty
reverberation through the chambers of his soul:

"I am God, and there is none else! Behold, I come quickly! Arise,
shine, for thy light is come!"

The sweet face of the child rose out of the gloom before the priest.
The years rolled back like a curtain, and he saw himself at her tender
age, a white, unformed soul, awaiting the sculptor's hand. God forbid
that the hand which shaped his career should form the plastic