the forbidden tree, till the pangs of death encompass us!

And when at last the dark angel hovered over the sin-stricken earth
and claimed it for his own, the great Master came to sound again the
warning--"As a man thinketh in his heart, _so is he_!" But they would
have none of him, and nailed him to a tree!

Oh, Jerusalem! Oh, ye incarnate human mind! Even the unique Son of God
wept as he looked with yearning upon you! Why? Because of your
stubborn clinging to false ways, false beliefs, false thoughts of God
and man! Because ye would not be healed; ye would not be made whole!
Ye loved evil--ye gave it life and power, and ye rolled it like a
sweet morsel beneath your tongue--and so ye died! So came death into
this fair world, through the heart, the brain, the mind of man, _who
sought to know what God could not_!

"Padre dear, you are so quiet." The girl nestled closer to the awed
priest. Aye! And so the multitude on Sinai had stood in awed quiet as
they listened to the voice of God.

This child knew no evil! The man could not grasp the infinite
import of the marvelous fact. And yet he had sought to teach her
falsities--to teach her that evil did exist, as real and as potent
as good, and that it was to be accepted and honored by mankind! But
she had turned her back upon the temptation.

"Padre, are you going to tell me about Jesus?"

The priest roused from his deep meditation.

"Yes, yes--I want to know nothing else! I will get my Bible, and we
will read about him!"

"Bible? What is that, Padre dear?"

"What! You don't know what the Bible is?" cried the astonished
priest.

"No, Padre."

"But have you never--has your padre Rosendo never told you that it is
the book that tells--?"

"No," the girl shook her head. "But," her face kindling, "he told me
that Jesus was God's only son. But we are all His children, aren't
we?"

"Yes--especially you, little one! But Jesus was the greatest--"

"Did Jesus write the Bible, Padre?" the girl asked earnestly.

"No--we don't know who did. People used to think God wrote it; but I
guess He didn't."

"Then we will not read it, Padre."

The man bent reverently over the little brown head and prayed again
for guidance. What could he do with this child, who dwelt with
Jehovah--who saw His reflection in every flower and hill and fleecy
cloud--who heard His voice in the sough of the wind, and the ripple of
the waters on the pebbly shore! And, oh, that some one had bent over