n shone bright above--tottering when the blasts of
adversity whirled about it? He had said such beautiful things to her,
such wonderful things about God and His children only yesterday. And
now--why this awful change? Why again this sudden lowering of
standards?

He had sunk deep into his dark thoughts. "Death is inevitable!" he
muttered grimly, forgetful of the child's presence.

"Oh, Padre dear!" she pleaded, passing her little hand tenderly over
his cheek. Then her face brightened. "I know what it is!" she
exclaimed. "You are just trying to think that two and two are
seven--and you can't prove it--and so you'd better stop trying!" She
broke into a little forced laugh.

Jose sat wrapped in black silence.

"Padre dear." Her voice was full of plaintive tenderness. "You have
talked so much about that good man Jesus. What would he say if he saw
you trying to make two and two equal seven? And if he had been here
last night--would he have let Feliz die?"

The priest made no answer. None was required when Carmen put her
questions.

"Padre dear," she continued softly. "Why didn't _you_ cure Feliz?"

His soul withered under the shock.

"You have told me, often, that Jesus cured sick people. And you said
he even made the dead ones live again--didn't you, Padre dear?"

"Yes," he murmured; "they say he did."

"And you read to me once from your Bible where he told the people that
he gave them power over everything. And you said he was the great
rule--you called him the Christ-principle--and you said he never went
away from us. Well, Padre dear," she concluded with quick emphasis,
"why don't you use him now?"

She waited a moment. Then, when no reply came--

"Feliz didn't die, Padre."

"_Hombre!_ It's all the same--he's gone!" he cried in a tone of sullen
bitterness.

"You think he is gone, Padre dear. And Feliz thought he had to go. And
so now you both see it that way--that's all. If you would see things
the way that good man Jesus told you to--well, wouldn't they be
different--wouldn't they, Padre dear?"

"No doubt they would, child, no doubt. But--"

She waited a moment for him to express the limitation which the
conjunctive implied. Then:

"Padre dear, how do you think he did it? How did he cure sick people,
and make the dead ones live again?"

"I--I don't know, child--I am not sure. That knowledge has been lost,
long since."

"You _do_ know, Padre," she insisted; "you _do_! Did he know that God
was e