Carmen was astir next morning long before the rising-bell sounded its shrill summons through the long corridors. When she opened her eyes she gazed at the ceiling above in perplexity. She still seemed to feel the tossing motion of the boat, and half believed the bell to be the call to the table, where she should again hear the cheery voice of Harris and meet the tolerant smile of Mrs. Reed. Then a rush of memories swept her, and her heart went down in the flood. She was alone in a great foreign city! She turned her face to the pillow, and for a moment a sob shook her. Then she reached under the pillow 17 and drew out the little Bible, which she had taken from her bundle and placed there when the Sister left her the night before. The book fell open to Isaiah, and she read aloud:

“I the Lord have called thee in righteousness, and will hold thine hand, and will keep thee, and give thee for a covenant of the people, for a light of the Gentiles.”

She snapped the book shut and quickly rose. “That means me,” she said firmly. “Padre JosÈ said I had a message for the world; and now I am to tell it to these people up here. God has called me in righteousness. That means, He has called me to do right thinking. And I am to tell these people how to think right. They don’t know as yet.”

Suddenly her thought reverted to Cartagena, and to the sturdy little lad who had so proudly claimed the name of RincÓn. For a moment she stood still. Then she burst into tears and threw herself back upon the bed.

But she did not lie there long. “I must think only God’s thoughts,” she said, struggling to her feet and checking her grief. “If it is right for the little boy to be his son, then I must want it to be so. I must want only the right––I have got to want it! And if it is not right now, then God will make it so. It is all in His hands, and I must not think of it any more, unless I think right thoughts.”

She dressed herself quickly, but did not put on the shoes. “I simply can not wear these things,” she mourned, looking at them dubiously; “and I do not believe the woman will make me. I wonder why the other woman called her Sister. Why did she wear that ugly black bonnet? And why was I hurried away from that hotel? It was so much pleasanter there, so bright and warm; and here it is so cold.” She shivered as she buttoned her thin dress. “But,” she continued, “I have got to go out now and find Mr. Reed and Mr. Harris––I have just got to find them––and to-day! But, oh, this city is so much larger than SimitÍ!”

She shook her head in perplexity as she put the Bible back again in the bundle, where lay the title papers to La Libertad and her mother’s little locket, which Rosendo had given her that last morning in SimitÍ. The latter she drew out and regarded wistfully for some moments. “I haven’t any father or mother but God,” she murmured. “But He is both father and mother to me now.” With a little sigh she tied up the bundle again. Holding it in one hand and carrying the much despised shoes in the other, she left the cheerless room and started down the long, cold hall.

When she reached the stairway leading to the floor below 18 she stopped abruptly. “Anita’s babe!” she exclaimed half-aloud. “I have been thinking only of myself. It is not blind! It sees! It sees as God sees! What is it that the Bible says?––‘And I will bring them by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight.’ I must know that––always! And Padre JosÈ said he would remember it, too.”

Again she choked back the tears which surged up at the remembrance of the priest, and, bracing herself, hastily descended the stairs, murmuring at every step, “God is everywhere––right here!”

At the far end of the lower hall she saw, through an open door, a number of elderly people sitting at long tables. Toward them she made her way. When she reached the door, she stopped and peered curiously within. A murmur of astonishment rose from the inmates when they caught sight of the quaint object in the doorway, standing uncertainly, with her shoes in one hand, the awkwardly tied bundle in the other, and garbed in the chaotic attire so hastily procured for her in Cartagena.

A Sister came quickly forward and, taking the girl’s hand, led her into a smaller adjoining room, where sat the Sister Superior at breakfast. The latter greeted the child gently and bade her be seated at the table. Carmen dropped into a chair and sat staring in naÏve wonder.

“Well,” began the Sister at length, “eat your breakfast quickly. This is Sunday, you know, and Mass will be said in the chapel in half an hour. You look frightened. I don’t wonder. But you are with friends here, little girl. What is your name?”

Carmen quickly recovered her spirits, and her nimble tongue its wonted flexibility. Without further invitation or preface she entered at once upon a lively description of her wonderful journey through the jungle, the subsequent ocean voyage, and the mishap at the pier, and concluded with the cryptical remark: “And, you know, SeÑora, it is all just as Padre JosÈ said, only a series of states of consciousness, after all!”

The Sister stared blankly at the beaming child. What manner of being was this that had been so strangely wafted into these sacred precincts on the night breeze! The abandoned woman who had brought her there, the Sister remembered, had dropped an equally cryptical remark––“She’s chock full of religion.”

But gratitude quickly mastered her wonder, and the woman, 19 pondering the child’s dramatic recital, murmured a sincere, “The Virgin be praised!”

“Oh,” said Carmen, looking up quickly as she caught the words, “you people up here talk just like those in SimitÍ. But Padre JosÈ said you didn’t know, either. You ought to, though, for you have had so many more ad––advantages than we have. SeÑora, there are many big, clumsy words in the English language, aren’t there? But I love it just the same. So did Padre JosÈ. We used to speak it all the time during the last years we were together. He said it seemed easier to talk about God in that language than in any other. Do you find it so, SeÑora?”

“What do you mean, child?” asked the puzzled Sister. “And who is this JosÈ that you talk so much about?”

“He––taught me––in SimitÍ. He is the priest there.”

“Well,” replied the Sister warmly, “he seems to have taught you queer things!”

“Oh, no!” returned Carmen quickly, “he just taught me the truth. He didn’t tell me about the queer things in the world, for he said they were not real.”

Again the Sister stared at the girl in dumb amazement. But the child’s thought had strayed to other topics. “Isn’t it cold up here!” she exclaimed, shivering and drawing her dress about her. “I guess I’ll have to put on these shoes to keep my feet warm.”

“Certainly, child, put them on!” exclaimed the Sister. “Didn’t you wear shoes in your country?”

“No,” replied Carmen, tugging and straining at the shoes; “I didn’t wear much of anything, it was so warm. Oh, it is beautiful down there, SeÑora, so beautiful and warm in SimitÍ!” She sighed, and her eyes filled with tears. But she brushed them away and smiled bravely up at the Sister. “I’ve come here because it is right,” she said with a firm nod of her head. “Padre JosÈ said I had a message for you. He said you didn’t know much about God up here. Why, I don’t know much of anything else!” She laughed a happy little laugh as she said this. Then she went on briskly:

“You know, SeÑora, Padre JosÈ isn’t really a priest. But he said he had to stay in the Church in order to teach me. I never could understand why. I am sure he just thought wrong about it. But, anyway, he will not have to be a priest any more, now that I have gone, will he? You know, Don Jorge said priests were a bad lot; but that isn’t so, for there are many good priests, aren’t there? Yes, there are. Only, they don’t understand, either. Why, SeÑora,” she exclaimed, suddenly remembering the Sister’s previous injunction, “is this a church? You said there would be Mass in the chapel––”

“No,” replied the Sister, still studying the girl attentively, while her manner became more severe; “this is a home for old people, a charitable institution.”

“Oh,” replied Carmen, with a very vague idea of what that meant. “Well,” her face alight and her eyes dancing, “I don’t belong here then, do I? I am never going to be old,” she meditated. “Why, God never grows old! And we are His children, you know. The Bible says we are made in His image and likeness. Well, if that is so, how can we ever grow old? Just think of God hobbling around in heaven with a cane and saying: ‘Well, I’m getting old now! I’ll soon be dying!’ Isn’t that awful! We wouldn’t grow old and die if it wasn’t for our wrong way of thinking, would we? When we think His thoughts, why, we will be like Him. But not until then. Padre JosÈ says this, and he knows it is true––only, he seems to have a hard time proving it. But, SeÑora, we have all got to prove it, some time, every one of us. And then there will not be any places like this for old people––people who still believe that two and two are seven, you know. And that’s my message.”

The woman looked at her blankly; but the girl rambled on. “Padre JosÈ sometimes talked of the charitable institutions out in the world, and he always said that charity was a crime against the people. And he was right, for that is just the way Jesus looked at it, isn’t it? Jesus did not give money to beggars, but he did better, he healed them of the bad state of mind that was making them poor and sick. Why don’t the priests do that? Can you heal the sick? Jesus, when he taught, first said a thing, and then he turned right around and proved it. Now do you do that? I try to. I’ve tried it all my life. And, why, SeÑora, I’ve had thousands of proofs!”

The Sister did not reply; and Carmen, stealing a covert glance at her, continued:

“You know, SeÑora, it is just as wicked to be sick and poor as it is to tell a lie, because being sick and poor is just the ex––the ex-ter-nal-i-zation of our thought; and such thought is not from God; and so to hold such thoughts and to believe them real is to believe in power apart from God. It is having other gods than the one God; and that is breaking the very first Commandment, isn’t it? Yes, it is; and you can prove it, just as you can prove the principles in mathematics. SeÑora, do you know anything about mathematics?”

The astonished woman made an involuntary sign of negation.

“Oh, SeÑora,” cried the enthusiastic girl, “the things that Jesus taught can be proved just as easily as we prove the rules in mathematics! Why not? for they are truth, and all truth 21 can be demonstrated, you know. You know, SeÑora, God is everywhere––not only in heaven, but right here where we are. Heaven, Padre JosÈ used to say so often, is only a perfect state of mind; and so it is, isn’t it? God, you know, is mind. And when we reflect Him perfectly, why, we will be in heaven. Isn’t it simple? But,” she went on after catching her breath, “we can’t reflect Him as long as we believe evil to be real and powerful. Evil isn’t anything. It is just zero, nothing––”

“I’ve heard that before,” interrupted the woman, recovering somewhat from her surprise. “But I think that before you get out of New York you will reverse that idea. There’s a pretty fair amount of evil here, and it is quite real, we find.”

“But it isn’t!” cried Carmen. “If it is real, then God made it. It seems real to you––but that is only because you give it reality in your consciousness. You believe it real, and so it becomes to you.”

“Well,” said the woman dryly, “on that basis I think the same may be said of good, too.”

“No,” answered Carmen eagerly, “good is––”

“There,” interrupted the Sister coldly, holding up an admonitory hand, “we are not going to discuss the foolish theological notions which that fallen priest put into your poor little head. Finish your breakfast.”

The child looked at the woman in mute protest. JosÈ a fallen priest! Would these people up here so regard him? It was a new thought, and one that she would not accept.

“SeÑora,” she began again, after a brief interval, “Padre JosÈ is a good man, even the human Padre JosÈ. And he is trying to solve his problem and know God. And he is trying to know himself, not as other people think they know him, but as God knows him, and as I have always tried to know him. You have no right to judge him––and, anyway, you are not judging him, but only your wrong idea of him. And that,” she said softly, “is nothing.”

The Sister did not answer. She was beginning to feel the spell of those great brown eyes, that soft, rich voice, and the sparkling expression of innocence, purity, and calm assurance that bubbled from those red lips. And she was losing herself in contemplation of the girl’s luxuriant beauty, whose rich profusion her strange, foreign attire could not disguise.

“SeÑora,” said Carmen suddenly, “the people on the boat laughed at my clothes. But I don’t think them half as funny as that great black bonnet you are wearing. Why do you wear it? I never saw one until I was brought here.”

It was said innocently, and with no thought of offense. But the woman instantly roused from her meditation and assumed 22 an attitude of severe dignity. “Finish your breakfast,” she commanded sharply. “And remember after this that children’s manners here are not those of your country.”

The girl fell quiet under the rebuke, and the meal ended in silence. As they were rising from the table a cheery voice came from the outer room, and presently a priest looked in.

“Good morning, Sister,” he cried heartily. “Well, who’s this?” as his eyes fell upon Carmen. He was a young man, apparently still in the twenties, of athletic build, inclined rather to stoutness, and with a round, shining face that radiated health and good nature.

The Sister quietly returned his cordial greeting. “It is a little waif,” she said in answer to his query, “who strayed in here last night.”

“Aha,” said the priest, “another derelict! And will you send her to the orphanage?”

“I’m afraid if I do the little heretic will corrupt all the other children,” replied the Sister. “Father,” she continued seriously, “I want you to examine this child, and then tell me what you think should be done with her.”

“What is it––health?” asked the priest, studying the girl.

“No,” replied the Sister; “but another priest has gone wrong, and this,” pointing to Carmen, “is the result of his pernicious teachings.”

The priest did not reply for some moments. Then he sighed wearily. “Very well, Sister,” he said in a low voice. “I will talk with her after the service.” He seemed suddenly to have lost his cheerfulness, as he continued to converse with the woman on matters pertaining to the institution.

Carmen, wondering and receptive, took the place assigned to her in the chapel and sat quietly through the service. She had often seen JosÈ celebrate Mass in the rude little church in SimitÍ, but with no such elaboration as she witnessed here. Once or twice she joined in the responses, not with any thought of worship, but rather to give vent, even if slight, to the impelling desire to hear her own musical voice. She thought as she did so that the priest looked in her direction. She thought others looked at her attentively at the same time. But they had all stared at her, for that matter, and she had felt confused and embarrassed under their searching scrutiny. Yet the old people attracted her peculiarly. Never had she seen so many at one time. And never, she thought, had she seen such physical decrepitude and helplessness. And then she fell to wondering what they were all there for, and what they got out of the service. Did the Mass mean anything to them? Did they believe that thereby their sins were atoned? Did they believe 23 that that priest was really changing the wafer and wine into flesh and blood? She recalled much that JosÈ had told her about the people up in the States. They were not so different, mentally, from her own, after all.

The Host had been elevated. The people, still gossiping cheerfully, had prostrated themselves before it. The sermon had been short, for the old people waxed impatient at long discourses. Then the priest descended from the pulpit and came to Carmen. “Now, little girl,” he said, seating himself beside her, “tell me all about yourself, who you are, where you come from, and what you have been taught. And do not be afraid. I am your friend.” Carmen smiled up at him; then plunged into her narrative.

It was two hours later when the Sister Superior looked in and saw the priest and girl still sitting in earnest conversation. She stood listening. “But,” she heard the priest say, “you tell me that this Father JosÈ taught you these things?”

“He taught me English, and French, and German. He taught me mathematics. And he taught me all I know of history, and of the world,” the girl replied.

“Yes, yes,” the priest went on hurriedly; “but these other things, these religious and philosophical notions, who taught you these?”

The Sister drew closer and strained her ears to hear.

The girl looked down as she answered softly, “God.”

The priest’s head sank upon his breast. He reached out and laid a hand on hers. “I believe you,” he said, in a voice scarcely audible. “I believe you––for we do not teach such things.”

The girl looked up with luminous eyes. “Then,” she said quizzically, “you are not really a priest.”

“Father Waite!” The Sister’s voice rang sternly through the quiet chapel. The priest started to his feet in confusion. “The dinner-bell will ring in a few minutes,” continued the Sister, regarding the man severely.

“Ah, true,” he murmured, hastily glancing at the clock. “The time passed so rapidly––a––a––this girl––”

“Leave the girl to me,” replied the Sister coldly. “Unless,” she added, “you consider her deranged. Coming from that hot country suddenly into this cold climate might––”

“No, no,” interrupted the priest hastily; “she seems uncommonly strong mentally. She has some notions that are a––somewhat different from ours––that is––but I will come and have a further talk with her.”

He raised his hand in silent benediction, while the Sister bowed her head stiffly. Then, as if loath to take his eyes from the girl, he turned and went slowly out.

“Come,” said the woman sharply. Carmen followed her out into the hall and down a flight of steps to the kitchen below.

“Katherine,” said the Sister Superior, addressing an elderly, white-haired Sister who seemed to be in charge of the culinary department, “put this girl to work. Let her eat with you and sleep in your room. And see if you can’t work some of the foolish notions out of her head.”