Ten years previous to the events just related, Padre Antonio, his parochial duties over for the day, was slowly retracing his steps homeward.

It was a mild, serene summer evening, and he paused before the massive iron gates set in the high adobe wall surrounding his garden for a last look at the sunset before entering his house.

It had been a strenuous day for Padre Antonio. Early that morning, Miguel Torreno while beating his mule, had been kicked half way across his corral by that stubborn though sensible animal, breaking Miguel's right arm and fracturing three of his ribs. But no sooner had it been ascertained that old Miguel would not die as he obstinately insisted that he would, calling frantically upon the Saints the while as the vision of purgatorial fires which he knew awaited him loomed before his distracted imagination, than the wives of Pedro Torlone and JosÉ Alvarez, neighbors and friends, quarreled over a cheap blue and white striped ribosa, embroiling their husbands who, without the Padre's intercession, would have come to blows.

Then the last sacrament had been administered to Don Juan Otero, one of Santa FÉ's oldest and most respected citizens.

In a vain effort to banish the unpleasant recollections of the day from his thoughts, Padre Antonio turned with a sigh from the glories of the sunset which he had been contemplating, and was on the point of entering the garden when his quick ear caught the sound of horse's hoofs on the road, causing him to pause with his hand on the latch of the gate.

His house being situated in an unfrequented quarter of the town, he decided to await the coming of the animal; the bearer perchance of some friend or acquaintance. He had not long to wait. The sounds drew nearer and nearer, and presently, greatly to his astonishment, a tall, gaunt, half-starved gray horse with a riata fastened to his lower jaw, and upon whose back sat an equally gaunt and haggard Indian woman with disheveled hair and clothes tattered and dust begrimed, came into view around the sharp angle of the wall and stopped directly before him.

Never in all his long and varied experience had he witnessed such a pitiable spectacle as the woman presented. The wild, hollow eyes and wasted, emaciated form and features gave her more the appearance of some wild beast than a human being. She did not appear to be conscious of his presence; and before he had time to recover from his surprise or utter a word, she stretched both arms out before her as if toward the sun, and uttering a wild, harsh, inarticulate cry, dropped unconscious from the horse's back into his arms.

Experience had taught Padre Antonio to act quickly in cases of emergency, and with the assistance of his gardener and Manuela, his old Indian housekeeper, he carried her into the house and laid her upon his own bed. For days she lay in a delirium, the result of the terrible privations she had evidently endured. She raved and talked incoherently in a language which neither he nor Manuela understood.

The doctors whom he summoned at the outset, only shook their heads, and after a lengthy consultation informed him with the stoicism characteristic of the profession that, the patient would either die or recover. But Padre Antonio did not despair. In his extremity he turned to heaven, nor did his petition pass unheeded. At length, after many days of anxious watching, the fever left her and she sank into a deep, refreshing sleep from which she did not awaken for many hours.

It was toward the dawn of a Sabbath, and as the calm and peace of sleep settled upon her, her wasted and emaciated features began gradually to assume their normal outline. Nature asserted herself, and when the large dark eyes finally opened once more, it was into the face of a beautiful girl that Padre Antonio found himself gazing as he knelt by her bedside in prayer.

"Be quiet, my daughter," he involuntarily murmured as her eyes rested upon his, without considering whether she understood him. But the faint semblance of a smile that lit up her countenance in response to his words told him she comprehended. Then, during the long days of convalescence that ensued, she imparted her history to him in broken Spanish.

She was a Tewana; the daughter of their War Chief, the Whirlwind, who had been killed recently in battle with another Indian tribe, the Ispali. Just previous to this, her people who had long been at war with the Government, had been defeated by the Mexican troops. After the battle the entire tribe with the exception of the Whirlwind's band made peace with the Government; the remnant of the latter with which she remained, escaping into the mountains. But fate had doomed the little fleeing band to extermination. It was surprised and annihilated by the Ispali Chieftain, the White Wolf, and his followers whose territory they had invaded; she being the only one spared—the White Wolf signifying his intention of making her one of his wives. But that same night when the Chieftain entered the lodge he had set apart for her and began to make advances to her, she suddenly snatched a brand from the fire which burned in the center of the lodge and struck him over the head, knocking him senseless.

Then, stealing forth from the lodge, she mounted the Chieftain's horse which stood tethered just outside the door and fled under cover of the night. For days she fled across the deserts and mountains, concealing herself during the daytime and traveling at night; subsisting as best she could upon the wild roots and berries which she was able to find. But the privations which she was forced to endure—the lack of food and water, night vigils and exposure to the weather, began to tell on her. She became delirious, and no longer able to guide her horse, was obliged to let him choose his own course, and—Padre Antonio knew the rest.

Surely God had led this fair heathen child to his very door in order that he, Padre Antonio, might snatch her soul from the flames of hell by directing her in the way of the true faith. There could be no doubt of it; God's handiwork was too apparent.

Padre Antonio was a liberal, broad-minded man. Having experienced most things that fall to the lot of men, he did not believe in restraining her against her will in order that her conversion might be accomplished as many a zealous priest might have considered justifiable in her case. But should she manifest a desire to remain with him, she would be reared in the very lap of Mother Church. With this project in mind, it was with the greatest solicitude that he watched her recovery, and when she was informed that she would be permitted to return to her own people if she so desired, he won her confidence completely.

The last vestige of that barrier of restraint and suspicion which the strangeness of her position had reared between them was swept away.

From that moment the wild little nomad of the desert evinced the keenest interest in her new surroundings. Her childish delight was unbounded on beholding for the first time in her life the strange flowers and fruits in the garden. They were all so new and wonderful to her, and she wandered for hours among them; touching and plucking them and tasting and inhaling their fragrance.

Whether it was the novelty of her position, or her sudden and passionate attachment to Padre Antonio whom she regarded in the light of a new-found father that caused her to forget for the time her former wild life and consent to remain with him, is difficult to determine.

Padre Antonio who had lived many years among the wild tribes of the country and knew them as few men did, their insatiable love of liberty and intense dislike of the White man's civilization, looked upon her conversion and decision to remain with him as another direct intervention of Providence; for that which usually required years had been accomplished in as many weeks in her case. It was little short of a miracle, and he rejoiced exceedingly and began gradually to unfold his plans to her concerning her future.

The curriculum of the Convent of Saint Claire in Santa FÉ did not seem adequate, and nothing would do, but that he should accompany her to the City of Mexico, where he placed her in charge of the Sisters of Saint Ursula. There she would have not only the educational, but the social advantages which the city offered.

Before their departure he christened her, Chiquita Pia Maria Roxan Concepcion Salvatore; a name which, out of gratitude and obedience to her benefactor, she accepted without question concerning either its origin or his reason for giving it to her.

Six years passed, during which she traveled for three summers in Europe with friends of the Padre. Interminably long years they seemed to him. Each year he had planned to visit her, but each time something intervened to prevent his going. He was a busy man. His duties required annual visits to the outlying pueblos and distant Indian Missions, consuming his entire time. However, he at length received word from the Sisters of Saint Ursula that Chiquita had completed her course of studies and had started on her return journey to Santa FÉ.

It was evident from the reports which he had received at regular intervals from the Sisters that she did not care for the Church as he had fondly hoped she might. But after all, what did it really matter?

One so young and gay could not be expected to take life so seriously. When one grew old, one became serious enough for this world; and he smiled as he thought of his wild little Indian girl.

In his fond imagination, he saw her large, mischievous, dark eyes snap, and heard the merry peals of her laughter as she flitted about the garden in former years. Surely it was better thus—that she should remain blithe and happy like the birds, as God had created her.

The years had begun to tell on the aged Manuela. She was beginning to show signs of failing, and he decided that Chiquita, his ward, should live with him and rule his household in Manuela's stead. His wants were so few and simple that she would have little to do and old Manuela would be able to sun herself in the garden during the remaining years of her life; a reward for her long and faithful service. Nor was Manuela adverse to this new arrangement which must eventually deprive her of all authority in the household; a position she had guarded so jealously through the years and which had raised her in the estimation of the community. Although of a different people, the common racial blood bond had drawn the two women together from the first; besides, she could always assist in the lighter work of the household if she chose.

The Padre never tired of meditating upon this fond dream during his leisure moments. What a perpetual source of joy and satisfaction the presence and sunshine of this child of his own molding would be to him in his old age! Besides he would always be near her to administer spiritual council and guidance.

So, when the day of her arrival finally dawned, he and old Manuela rose with the sun, and gathering the freshest and brightest flowers the garden contained, they arranged them in the room she was to occupy; transforming it into a veritable bower of fragrance and color.

The prospect of seeing his protegÉe so soon again, filled Padre Antonio with the most conflicting emotions of longing and impatience.

He could think of nothing else—could neither sit nor stand, but fretted and bustled about the house with the impatience of a child. Fearful lest he should be too late, he hurried through his simple breakfast, consisting of black coffee and a roll, without so much as glancing at the local paper as was his wont; and then, quite forgetting to pull on his black silk gloves which Manuela thrust into his hands together with his hat and stick, he hastened to the station which he reached an hour before the time scheduled for the arrival of the stage.

Of course she must have changed somewhat during the long interval of her absence, he argued, more as a concession to reason than to desire or sentiment. But in spite of this possibility, his mental picture of her still remained that of the little Indian girl he had confided to the care of the good Sisters of Saint Ursula six years before.

What if the stage were late, and could she make the long journey alone and in safety, he asked himself a thousand times as he impatiently paced up and down the platform of the station; the tap of his gold-headed cane marking the time of his steps on the boards beneath him.

"Saints! but the stage was slow! A snail could crawl—" Suddenly he stopped short. A flush of joy suffused his countenance—his heart began to beat rapidly and his right hand with which he grasped his cane trembled perceptibly as he gazed intently down the long dusty highroad.

"At last!" he cried. Another intense moment of suspense and the distant cracking of a whip and sounds of wheels and hoof-beats on the road announced the approach of the stage. Presently it hove in sight and a few minutes later, as it drew up before the station and came to a full stop, the door was hastily flung open and a tall, closely veiled woman sprang lightly to the platform.

Her striking appearance would have commanded attention anywhere, but without noticing her, he brushed hastily past her and gazed eagerly into the interior of the coach. It was empty.

Dios! what had happened? There must be some mistake! With a note of keenest disappointment in his voice he turned sharply on the driver and impatiently demanded what had become of the little Indian girl that had been placed in his charge.

"Little Indian girl? Caramba!" A look of bewilderment accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders and a "no sabe, SeÑor Padre," was the only answer he received. Consternation seized Padre Antonio.

Merciful heaven! what had become of her—Chiquita, his little girl? His voice choked, while tears of bitter disappointment welled to his eyes. "Ah, yes, there had been a mistake—she would come by the next stage," he said, addressing the driver, and was on the point of turning away when a silvery peal of laughter fell upon his ears. He felt a soft touch on his shoulder and a voice close to him said:

"Padre Antonio, don't you know your little Chiquita?" The veil had slipped from her face, displaying the features of a beautiful Spanish woman. Confounded and speechless with amazement, Padre Antonio could only gaze in silence upon the apparition before him.

Was it possible, or was he only dreaming? What a transformation! Was this mature woman, this tall and supple and refined and graceful creature his Chiquita, his wild little Indian girl of former years? He rubbed his eyes in bewilderment and gazed again. Holy Maria! but she was beautiful—fair as the starry jasmine blossoms which she wore at her breast and in the dark folds of her hair.

In that hour the world suddenly became filled with exquisite harmony for Padre Antonio, and he seemed to grow younger by many years.

The radiant beauty of her face with the poetry of sunshine and laughter in her eyes and her grace and charm of personality affected him like some wonderfully attuned chime of silver bells. Surely this was worth waiting for. His prayers had been answered richly and abundantly, far beyond anything his imagination had pictured during those long years of waiting.