“Get some o’ th’ foolish notions out of your head, is it? Och, puir bairn, wid yer swate face an’ that hivenly hair, it’s welcome ye air to yer notions! But, hist! Ye have talked too brash to the Sister Superior. Ye air that innocent, puir thing! But, mind your tongue, honey. Tell your funny notions to old Katie, an’ they’ll be safe as the soul of Saint Patrick; but keep mum before the others, honey.”

“But, SeÑora, don’t they want to know the truth up here?” There was a note of appeal in the quavering voice.

“Now listen, honey; don’t call me sich heathen names. Call me Sister. I’m no SeÑora, whativer that may be. And as for wantin’ to know the truth, God bless ye, honey! th’ good Fathers know it all now.”

“They don’t, SeÑ––Sister!”

“Well, thin, they don’t––an’ mebby I’m not so far from agreein’ wid ye. But, och, it’s dead beat I am, after the Sunday’s work! But ye air a right smart little helper, honey––only, ye don’t belong in th’ kitchen.”

“SeÑ––I mean, Sister––”

“That’s better, honey; ye’ll get it in time.”

“Sister, I’ve just got to find Mr. Reed! Do you know him?”

“No, honey, it’s few I know outside these walls. But ye can put up a bit of a prayer when ye turn in to-night. An’ we’d best be makin’ for th’ bed, too, darlin’, for we’ve a hard day’s work to-morrow.”

It was Carmen’s second night in New York, and as the girl silently followed the puffing old woman up the several long, dark flights of stairs to the little, cheerless room under the eaves, it seemed to her that her brain must fly apart with the pressure of its mental accumulation. The great building in which she was now sheltered, the kitchen, with its marvels of equipment, gas stoves, electric lights, annunciators, and a thousand other equally wonderful appliances which the human mind has developed for its service and comfort, held her fascinated, 25 despite her situation, while she swelled with questions she dared not ask. Notwithstanding the anxiety which she had not wholly suppressed, her curiosity, naÏve, eager, and insatiable, rose mountain high. Sister Katherine had been kind to her, had received her with open arms, and given her light tasks to perform. And many times during the long afternoon the old woman had relaxed entirely from her assumed brusqueness and stooped to lay a large, red hand gently upon the brown curls, or to imprint a resounding kiss upon the flushed cheek. Now, as night was settling down over the great, roaring city, the woman took the homeless waif into her big heart and wrapped her in a love that, roughly expressed, was yet none the less tender and sincere.

“Ye can ask the Virgin, honey, to send ye to yer frinds,” said the woman, as they sat in the gloaming before the window and looked out over the kindling lights of the city.

“What good would that do, Sister?”

“Not much, I guess, honey,” answered the woman frankly. “Troth, an’ I’ve asked her fer iverything in my time, from diamonds to a husband, an’ she landed me in a convint! But I ain’t complainin’.”

“You didn’t ask in the right way, Sister––”

“Faith, I asked in ivery way I knew how! An’ whin I had th’ carbuncle on me neck I yelled at her! Sure she may have answered me prayer, fer th’ whoop I gave busted the carbuncle, an’ I got well. Ye nivir kin tell, honey. An’ so I ain’t complainin’.”

“But, Sis––I can’t call you Sister!” pleaded the girl, going to the woman and twining her arms about her neck.

“Och, honey darlin’”––tears started from the old woman’s eyes and rolled down her wrinkled cheeks––“honey darlin’, call me Katie, just old Katie. Och, Holy Virgin, if I could have had a home, an’ a beautiful daughter like you––!” She clasped the girl in her great arms and held her tightly.

“Katie, when you pray you must pray knowing that God has already given you what you need, and that there is nothing that can keep you from seeing it.”

The woman wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “An’ so, darlin’, if I want diamonds I must know that I have ’em, is it that, honey?”

“You dear thing!” murmured Carmen, drawing closer, and laying her soft cheek against the leathery visage of the old woman.

“Say that again, honey––och, say it again! It’s words, darlin’, that’s nivir been said to old Katie!”

“Why, hasn’t any one ever been kind to you?”

“Kind! Och, ivirybody’s kind to me, honey! But nobody has ivir loved me––that way. The good Lord made me a fright, honey––ain’t ye noticed? I’ve a face like an owl. An’ they told me from th’ cradle up I’d nivir land a man. An’ I didn’t, honey; they all ran from me––an’ so I become a bride o’ th’ Church. But I ain’t complainin’.”

“But, Katie, the face is nothing. Why, your heart is as big––as big as the whole world! I hadn’t been with you an hour before I knew that. And, Katie dear, I love you.”

“Och, darlin’,” murmured the woman, “sure th’ Virgin be praised fer sendin’ ye to me, a lonely old woman!”

“It was not the Virgin, Katie, but God who brought me here,” said the girl gently, as she caressed the old Sister’s cheek.

“It’s all one, honey; the Virgin’s th’ Mother o’ God.”

“Why, Katie! You don’t know what you are saying!”

“Troth, child, she has th’ same power as God! Don’t we pray to her, an’ she prays to th’ good God to save us? Don’t she have influence with Him?”

“No, Katie, no. There is no person or thing that persuades God to be good to His children. There is nothing that influences Him. He is infinite––infinite mind, Katie, and infinite good. Oh, Katie, what awful things are taught in this world as truth! How little we know of the great God! And yet how much people pretend they know about Him! But if they only knew––really knew, as Jesus did––why, Katie, there wouldn’t be an old person, or a sick or unhappy one in the whole world! Katie,” after a little pause, “I know. And I’m going to tell them.”

The old Sister drew the child closer. “Air these more o’ yer funny notions, darlin’?”

“I suppose they are what the world thinks funny, Katie,” answered the girl.

“An’ I don’t wonder! We are not taught such things, honey. But then, th’ world moves, girlie––even old Katie sees that. Only, the Church don’t move with it. An’ old Katie can see that, too. An’ so, I’m thinkin’, does Father Waite.”

“I know he does, Katie.”

“Faith, an’ how do ye know it, child?”

“He talked with me––a long time, this morning. He said God had taught me what I know.”

“Aye, is it so? Thin me own suspicions air right; he’s out o’ tune! Did ye say, girlie dear, that he didn’t scold ye fer yer funny notions?”

“No, Katie, he said they were right.”

“Did he so! Thin, lassie dear, things is goin’ to happen. 27 An’ he’s a good man––troth, they make no better in this world!”

The old Sister lapsed into thought. Carmen looked out wonderingly over the city. She yearned to know what it held for her.

“Katie,” she said at length, bending again over the woman, “will you help me find Mr. Reed?”

“Och, lassie––what’s your name again?”

“Carmen,” replied the girl, “Carmen Ariza.”

“Cair-men Aree––now ain’t that a name fer ye! An’ yer nationality, girl?”

“I’m a Colombian, Katie.”

“Whist! Where is it? In Afrikay?”

“South America,” with a little sigh.

“Now think o’ that! An’ I’m Scotch-Irish, honey; an’ we’re both a long way from th’ ol’ sod! Lassie dear, tell me about last night. But, no; begin ’way back. Give us th’ whole tale. Old Katie’s weak in th’ head, girlie, but she may see a way out fer ye. Th’ Virgin help ye, puir bairn!”

Midnight boomed from the bell in a neighboring tower when Carmen finished her story.

“Be the Saints above!” exclaimed the old Sister, staring at the girl in amazement. “Now do ye let me feel of ye to see that ye air human; fer only a Saint could go through all that an’ live to tell it! An’ the place ye were in last night! Now be Saint Patrick, if I was rich I’d have Masses said every day fer that Jude who brung ye here! Don’t tell me th’ good Lord won’t forgive her! Och, God! she’s a Saint already.”

“She’s a good woman, Katie; and, somehow, I felt sorry for her, but I don’t know why. She has a beautiful home in that hotel––”

“Hotel, is it! Hivins above! But––och, sure, it was a hotel, honey. Only, ye air better off here wi’ old Katie.”

“And now you will help me?”

“Help you, lassie! God bless ye, yes! But––unless it’s wi’ Father Waite, I don’t know what I can do. Ye air in bad with th’ Sister Superior fer yer talk at th’ breakfast table. Ye’re a fresh little heathen, honey. An’ she’s suspicious of Father Waite, too. We all air. An’ he th’ best man on airth! But his doctrine ain’t just sound, sweatheart. Hivins, doctrine! It means more’n a good heart! There, honey, lave it to me. But it’s got to be done quick, or th’ Sister Superior’ll have ye in an orphan asylum, where ye’ll stay till ye air soused in th’ doctrine! I can manage to get word to Father Waite to-morrow, airly. Jinny will run over fer me. A bit of a word wi’ him’ll fix it, lassie dear. An’ now, honey swate, off with 28 them funny clothes and plump into bed. Saints above! it’s all but marnin’ now!”

A few minutes later the woman turned to the girl who lay so quiet at her side.

“Honey,” she whispered, “was ye tellin’ me awhile back that ye knew the right way to pray?”

“Yes, Katie dear,” the child murmured.

“Thin do you pray, lass, an’ I’ll not trouble the Virgin this night.”

“Well, Father, what do you think now?” The Sister Superior looked up aggressively, as Father Waite slowly entered the room. His head was bowed, and there was a look of deep earnestness upon his face.

“I have talked with her again––an hour, or more,” he said reflectively. “She is a––a remarkable girl, in many ways.” He stopped, uncertain how to proceed.

The Sister eyed him keenly. “She attracts and repels me, both,” she said. “At times she seems positively uncanny. And she appears to be suffering from religious dementia. Do you not think so?”

It was a compromising question, and the priest weighed his words carefully before replying. “She does––seem to––to have rather––a––rather unusual––religious views,” said he slowly.

“Would it not be well to have Dr. Sullivan examine her?”

“To what end?”

“That we may know what to do with her. If she is mentally unsound she must not be sent to the orphanage.”

“She should be taken––a––I mean, we should try to locate her friends. I have already searched the city directory; but, though there are many Reeds, there are none listed with the initials she gave me as his. I had thought,” he continued hesitatingly, “I had thought of putting her in charge of the Young Women’s Christian Association––”

“Father Waite!” The Sister Superior rose and drew herself up to her full height. “Do you mean to say that you have contemplated delivering her into the hands of heretics?” she demanded coldly, her tall figure instinct with the mortal pride of religious superiority.

“Why, Sister,” returned the priest with embarrassment, “would it not be wise to place her among those whose views harmonize more closely with hers than ours do?”

“Father! I am surprised––!”

“But––she is not a Catholic!” urged the man, with a gesture of impatience. “And she will never be one. The combined weight of all the centuries of church authority could not make 29 her one––never! I must take her to those with whom she rightfully belongs.”

The Sister Superior’s eyes narrowed and glittered, and her face grew dark. “Never!” she said in a low tone. “I would rather see her dead! Father Waite, you exceed your authority! I am in charge here, and I shall report this case to the Bishop!”

The priest stood hesitant for a moment. The futility of his case seemed to impress him. Taking up his hat, he bowed without speaking and went out. The Sister Superior stepped to the telephone. Outside the door the man listened until he caught the number she called. His face grew dark and angry, and his hands clenched a she strode down the hall.

On the stairs that led up from the kitchen stood Sister Katherine.

“Hist! Father!”

He stopped and turned to the woman. Her finger went up to her lips.

“Wait on th’ corner––behind the church! The lassie will meet you there!”

Before he could reply the woman had plunged again into the dark stairway. Stopping at a small closet below, she took out a bundle. Then she hurried to the kitchen and summoned Carmen, who was sitting at a table peeling potatoes.

“Troth, lazy lass,” she commanded sharply, “do you take the bucket and mop and begin on the front steps. And mind that ye don’t bring me heavy hand down on ye! Och, lassie darlin’,” she added, when she had drawn the startled girl out of hearing of the others, “give yer old Katie a kiss, and then be off! Troth, it breaks me heart to see ye go––but ’twould break yours to stay! Go, lassie darlin’, an’ don’t fergit old Katie! Here,” thrusting the girl’s bundle and a dollar bill into her hands, “an’ God bless ye, lass! Ye’ve won me, heart an’ soul! Ye’ll find a frind at th’ nixt corner!” pointing up the street. She strained the girl again to her breast, then opened the door and hastily thrust her out into the street.

For a moment Carmen stood dazed by the suddenness of it all. She looked up confusedly at the great, yellow building from which she had been ejected. There was no visible sign of life. Then, grasping her bundle and the dollar bill, she hurried out through the gate and started up the street.

Around the corner stood Father Waite. The man’s face was furrowed, and his body trembled. The girl went up to him with a glad smile. The priest looked up, and muttered something incoherent under his breath a she took her hand.

“Where are we going, Padre?” she asked.

He drew some loose change from his pocket, and hailed an approaching street car.

“To police headquarters,” he replied, “to ask them to help us find your friends.”