"Did Don Mario say that stuff would cure padre Rosendo?" asked Carmen,
pointing to the quinine.

"Yes, _chiquita_."

"Why did he say so, Padre?"

"Because he really believed it, _carita_."

"But what is it, Padre--and how can it cure sick people?"

"It is the bark of a certain tree, little one, that people take as
medicine. It is a sort of poison which people take to counteract
another poison. A great school of medicine is founded upon that
principle, Carmen," he added. And then he fell to wondering if it
really was a principle, after all. If so, it was evil overcoming evil.
But would the world believe that both he and Rosendo had been cured
by--what? Faith? True prayer? By the operation of a great, almost
unknown principle? Or would it scoff at such an idea?

But what cared he for that? He saw himself and Rosendo restored, and
that was enough. He turned to the child. "They think the quinine cures
fever, little one," he resumed.

"And does it?" The little face wore an anxious look as she put the
question.

"They think it does, _chiquita_," replied the priest, wondering what
he should say.

"But it is just because they think so that they get well, isn't it?"
the girl continued.

"I guess it is, child."

"And if they thought right they would be cured without this--is it not
so, Padre dear?"

"I am sure of it--now," replied the priest. "In fact, if they always
kept their thoughts right I am sure they would never be sick."

"You mean, if they always thought about God," the child amended.

"Yes--I mean just that. If they knew, _really knew_, that God is
everywhere, that He is good, and that He never makes people sick, they
would always be well."

"Of course, Padre. It is only their bad thoughts that make them sick.
And even then they are not really sick," the child concluded. "They
think they are, and they think they die--and then they wake up and
find it isn't so at all."

Had the child made this remark to him a few weeks before, he had
crushed it with the dull, lifeless, conventional formulae of human
belief. To-day in penitent humility he was trying to walk hand in hand
with her the path she trod. For he was learning from her that
righteousness is salvation. A few weeks ago he had lain at death's
door, yearning to pass the portal. Yesterday he believed he had again
seen the dark angel, hovering over the stricken Rosendo. But in each
case _something_ had intervened. Perhaps that "something not ours