yes gazed
vacantly at the manifestations of activity about him.

Hurrying across the road to escape the scalding heat, Jose's ears
again caught the sound of singing, issuing evidently from Rosendo's
house. It was very like the clear, sweet voice which had floated into
his room the morning after he awoke from his delirium. He approached
the door reverently and looked in. Carmen was arranging the few poor
dishes upon the rough table, and as she worked, her soul flowed across
her lips in song.

The man listened astonished. The words and the simple melody which
carried them were evidently an improvisation. But the voice--did that
issue from a human throat? Yes, for in distant Spain and far-off Rome,
in great cathedrals and concert halls, he had sometimes listened
entranced to voices like this--stronger, and delicately trained, but
reared upon even less of primitive talent.

The girl caught sight of him; and the song died on the warm air.

The priest strode toward her and clasped her in his arms. "Carmen,
child! Who taught you to sing like that?"

The girl smiled up in his face. "God, Padre."

Of course! He should have known. And in future he need never ask.

"And I suppose He tells you when to sing, too, as He does
Cantar-las-horas?" said Jose, smiling in amusement.

"No, Padre," was the unaffected answer. "He just sings Himself in
me."

The man felt rebuked for his light remark; and a lump rose in his
throat. He looked again into her fair face with a deep yearning.

Oh, ye of little faith! Did you but know--could you but realize--that
the kingdom of heaven is within you, would not celestial melody flow
from your lips, too?

Throughout the afternoon, while he labored with his willing helpers in
the church building and his homely cottage, the child's song lingered
in his brain, like the memory of a sweet perfume. His eyes followed
her lithe, graceful form as she flitted about, and his mind was busy
devising pretexts for keeping her near him. At times she would steal
up close to him and put her little hand lovingly and confidingly into
his own. Then as he looked down into her upturned face, wreathed with
smiles of happiness, his breath would catch, and he would turn
hurriedly away, that she might not see the tears which suffused his
eyes.

When night crept down, unheralded, from the _Sierras_, the priest's
house stood ready for its occupant. Cantar-las-horas had dedicated it
by singing the _Angelus_ at the fro