what always happens to people who think about themselves
all the time--they get buried."

Jose was glad of the silence that fell upon them. Wrapped so long in
his own egoism, he had now no worldly wisdom with which to match this
girl's sapient words. He waited. He felt that Carmen was but the
channel through which a great Voice was speaking.

"Padre," the tones were tender and soft, "you don't always think of
good things, do you?"

"I? Why, no, little girl. I guess I haven't done so. That is, not
always. But--"

"Because if you had you wouldn't have been driven into the lake that
day. And you wouldn't be here now in Simiti."

"But, child, even a _Cura_ cannot always think of good things, when he
sees so much wickedness in the world!"

"But, Padre, God is good, isn't He?"

"Yes, child." The necessity to answer could not be avoided.

"And He is everywhere?"

"Yes." He had to say it.

"Then where is the wickedness, Padre?"

"Why--but, _chiquita_, you don't understand; you are too young to
reason about such things; and--"

In his heart Jose knew he spoke not the truth. He felt the great
brown eyes of the girl penetrate his naked soul; and he knew that in
the dark recesses of the inner man they fell upon the grinning
skeleton of hypocrisy. Carmen might be, doubtless was, incapable of
reasoning. Of logical processes she knew nothing. But by what crass
assumption might he, admittedly woefully defeated in his combat with
Fate, oppose his feeble shafts of worldly logic to this child's
instinct, an instinct of whose inerrancy her daily walk was a living
demonstration? In quick penitence and humility he stretched out his
arm and drew her unresisting to him.

"Dear little child of God," he murmured, as he bent over her and
touched his lips to her rich brown curls, "I have tried my life long
to learn what you already know. And at last I have been led to you--to
you, little one, who shall be a lamp unto my feet. Dearest child, I
want to know your God as you know Him. I want you to lead me to Him,
for you know where He is."

"He is _everywhere_, Padre dear," whispered the child, as she
nestled close to the priest and stole her soft arms gently about his
neck. "But we don't see Him nor hear Him if we have bad thoughts, and
if we don't love everybody and everything, even Cucumbra, and
Cantar-las-horas, and--"

"Yes, _chiquita_, I know now," interrupted Jose. "I don't wonder they
all love you."

"But, Padre dear, I