s end was talking to them three nights a week in
the church building, where the simple people hung upon his words like
children enwrapped in fairy lore. He was holding regular Sunday
services, and offering Masses during the week for those of his
parishioners who requested them, and who would have been shocked,
puzzled, and unhappy had he refused to do so, or attempted to prove
their uselessness. He was likewise saying diurnal Masses for the
little Maria, to whom, as she lay breathing her last in his arms in
Cartagena, he had given the promise to offer them daily in her behalf
for, a year.

Nor was this the extent of his loving sacrifice for the girl. He had
already sent a small sum of money to Catalina by Captain Julio, who
promised to arrange at Calamar for its transmission, and for the safe
convoy of a similar small packet monthly to Cartagena and into the
hands of the two women who were caring for the infant son of Wenceslas
and the ill-fated Maria. He had promised her that night that he would
care for her babe. And his life had long since shown what a promise
meant to him. He knew he would be unable to learn of the child's
progress directly from these women, for they were both illiterate. But
Captain Julio brought an encouraging message from them, and assured
Jose that he would always make inquiry for the babe on his trips down
the river. Jose's long-distance dealings with the genial captain had
been conducted through Juan, who had constituted himself the priest's
faithful servant and the distant worshiper of the child Carmen.

"Padre Jose," Juan had said one day, striving vainly to hide his
embarrassment, "the little Carmen grows very beautiful. She is like
the Pascua-flower, that shines through the ferns in the _cano_. She is
like the great blue butterfly, that floats on the sunbeams that sift
through the forest trees."

"Yes, Juan, she is very beautiful."

"Padre, you love her much, is it not so?"

"Very much, indeed, Juan."

"And I, Padre, I, too, love her." He paused and dug the hard ground
with his bare toes.

"Padre," he resumed, "the little Carmen will marry--some day, will she
not?"

Jose started. The thought had never occurred to him! Carmen marry?
After all, she was human, and-- But, no, he could not, he would not,
think of it!

"Why, Juan--I--cannot say--"

"But, Padre, she will." Juan was growing bolder. "And--and, Padre,
I--I should like it if she would marry me. Ah, _Senor Padre_, alread