ian name the easier to pronounce),
"and, like you, without any volition on her part or previous knowledge of
our existence. But there is this difference between you: she came as a
little child, you come as a grown man. Sixteen years ago we had several
severe earthquakes. They did us little harm down here, but up on the
Cordillera they wrought fearful havoc, and the sea rose and there was a
great storm, and several ships were dashed to pieces against our
iron-bound coast, which no mariner willingly approaches. The morning after
the tempest there was found on the edge of the cliffs a cot in which lay a
rosy-cheeked babe. How it came to pass none could tell, but we all thought
that the cot must have been fastened to a board, which became detached
from the cot at the very moment when the sea threw it on the land. The
babe was just able to lisp her name--'Angela,' which corresponded with the
name embroidered on her clothing. This is all we know about her; and I
greatly fear that those to whom she belonged perished in the storm. Even
the wreckage that was washed ashore furnished no clew; it was part of two
different vessels. The little waif was brought to me and with me she has
ever since remained."

"And will always remain, dear father," said Angela, regarding the old
priest with loving reverence. "All that I lost in the storm has he been to
me--father, mother, instructor, and friend. You see here, monsieur, the
best and wisest man in all the world."

"You have had so wide an experience of the world and of men, _mignonne_!"
returned the abbe, with an amused smile. "Sir, since she could speak she
has seen two white men. You are the second.--Ah, well, if I were not
afraid you would think we had constituted ourselves into a mutual
admiration society I should be tempted to say something even more
complimentary about her."

"Say it, Monsieur l'Abbe, say it, I pray you," I exclaimed, eagerly, for
it pleased me more than I can tell to hear him sound Angela's praises.

"Nay, I would rather you learned to appreciate her from your own
observation. Yet I will say this much. She is the brightness of my life,
the solace of my old age, and so good that even praise does not spoil her.
But you look tired; shall we sit down on this fallen log and rest a few
minutes?"

To this proposal I gladly assented, for I was spent with fatigue and faint
with hunger. Angela, however, after glancing at me compassionately and
saying she would be back