Speak, wretched man! What is it you want?"

"I want to find the child."

"But if it were possible, if she were still living, are you fit to seek
her, to even make yourself known to her, to appear before her?"

"Well, if I made it profitable to her, perhaps."

"Perhaps," echoed the priest, scornfully. "So be it. But why come
here?"

"To ask your advice. To know how to begin my search. You know this
country. You were here when that boat drifted ashore beyond that
mountain."

"Ah, indeed. I have much to do with it. It is an affair of the
alcalde--the authorities--of your--your police."

"Is it?"

The Padre again met the stranger's eyes. He stopped, with the snuffbox
he had somewhat ostentatiously drawn from his pocket still open in his
hand.

"Why is it not, Senor?" he demanded.

"If she lives, she is a young lady by this time, and might not want the
details of her life known to any one."

"And how will you recognize your baby in this young lady?" asked Father
Pedro, with a rapid gesture, indicating the comparative heights of a
baby and an adult.

"I reckon I'll know her, and her clothes too; and whoever found her
wouldn't be fool enough to destroy them."

"After fourteen years! Good! You have faith, Senor"--

"Cranch," supplied the stranger, consulting his watch. "But time's up.
Business is business. Good-by; don't let me keep you."

He extended his hand.

The Padre met it with a dry, unsympathetic palm, as sere and yellow as
the hills. When their hands separated, the father still hesitated,
looking at Cranch. If he expected further speech or entreaty from him
he was mistaken, for the American, without turning his head, walked in
the same serious, practical fashion down the avenue of fig trees, and
disappeared beyond the hedge of vines. The outlines of the mountain
beyond were already lost in the fog. Father Pedro turned into the
refectory.

"Antonio."

A strong flavor of leather, onions, and stable preceded the entrance of
a short, stout _vaquero_ from the little _patio_.

"Saddle Pinto and thine own mule to accompany Francisco, who will take
letters from me to the Father Superior at San Jose to-morrow at
daybreak."

"At daybreak, reverend father?"

"At daybreak. Hark ye, go by the mountain trails and avoid the highway.
Stop at no _posada_ nor _fonda_, but if the child is weary, rest then
awhile at Don Juan Briones' or at the rancho of the Blessed Fisherman.
Have no converse with stragglers