“He that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.”

The reporters of the unique Man of Galilee, upon whose straining ears these words fell, noted them for future generations of footsore pilgrims on life’s wandering highway––for the rich, satiated with their gorgeous gluttonies; for the proud Levite, with his feet enmeshed in the lifeless letter of the Law; for the loathsome and outcast beggar at the gates of Dives. And for JosÈ de RincÓn, priest of the Holy Catholic Church and vicar of Christ, scion of aristocracy and worldly learning, now humbled and blinded, like Paul on the road to Damascus, begging that his spiritual sight might be opened to the glory of the One with whom he had not known how to walk.

Returning in silence from the church to Rosendo’s humble cottage, JosÈ had asked leave to retire. He would be alone with the great Presence which had come to him across the desert of his life, and now stood before him in the brightness of the undimmed sun. He no longer felt ill nor exhausted. Indeed, quite the contrary; a quickened sense of life, an eagerness to embrace the opportunity opening before him, caused his chest to heave and his shrunken veins to throb.

On his bed in the darkened room he lay in a deep silence, broken only at intervals by the hurried scampering of lizards darting through the interstices of the dry walls. His uncomprehending eyes were fixed upon the dust-laden thatch of the roof overhead, where droning wasps toiled upon their frail abodes. He lay with the portals of his mind opened wide. Through them, in ceaseless flow, passed two streams which did not mingle. The one, outward bound, turbid with its burden of egoism, fear, perplexity, and hopelessness, which, like barnacles, had fastened to his soul on its chartless voyage; the other, a stream of hope and confidence and definite purpose, a stream which leaped and sang in the warm sunlight of Love as it poured into his receptive brain.

The fresh thought which flowed into his mental chambers rapidly formed into orderly plans, all centering upon the child, Carmen. What could he teach her? The relative truths and worldly knowledge––purified, as far as in him lay, from the dross of speculation and human opinion––which lay stored in the archives of his mind? Yes; but that was all. History, and its interpretation of human progress; the languages; mathematics, and the elements of the physical sciences; literature; and a knowledge of people and places. With these his retentive mind was replete. But beyond this he must learn of her. And her tutor, he now knew, was the Master Mind, omniscient God. And he knew, more, that she possessed secrets whose potency he might as yet scarcely imagine. For, in an environment which for dearth of mental stimulus and incentive could scarcely be matched; amid poverty but slightly raised above actual want; untouched by the temperamental hopelessness which lies just beneath the surface of these dull, simple folk, this child lived a life of such ecstasy as might well excite the envy of the world’s potentates.

But meantime, what should be his attitude toward the parish? He fully realized that he and the Church were now as far apart as the poles. Yet this was become his parish, the first he had ever held; and these were his people. And he must face them and preach––what? If not the Catholic faith, then would he be speedily removed. And that meant complete disruption of his rapidly formulating plans. But might he not in that event flee with Carmen, renounce the Church, and––

Impossible! Excommunication alone could sever the oath by which the Church held him. And for that he could not say that he was ready. For excommunication meant disgrace to his mother––perhaps the snapping of a heart already sorely strained. To renounce his oath was dishonor. To preach the Catholic faith without sincerity was scarcely less. Yet amid present circumstances this seemed the only course open to him.

But what must he teach Carmen in regard to the Church? Could he maintain his position in it, yet not of it; and at the same time rear her without its pale, yet so as not to conflict with the people of SimitÍ, nor cause such comment as might reach the ears of the Bishop of Cartagena? God alone knew. It must be attempted, at any rate. There was no other way. And if it was God’s plan, he might safely trust Him for the requisite strength and wisdom. For this course the isolation of SimitÍ and the childish simplicity of its people afforded a tremendous advantage. On the other hand, he knew that both he and Carmen had powerful enemies. Yet, one with God might rout a host. And Carmen walked with God.

Thus throughout the afternoon the priest weighed and pondered the thoughts that sought admission to his reawakened mind. He was not interrupted until sundown; and then Carmen entered the room with a bowl of chocolate and some small wheaten loaves. Behind her, with an amusing show of dignity, stalked a large heron, an elegant bird, with long, scarlet legs, gray plumage, and a gracefully curved neck. When the bird reached the threshold it stopped, and without warning gave vent to a prolonged series of shrill, unmusical sounds. The startled priest sat up in his bed and exclaimed in amazement.

“It is only Cantar-las-horas, Padre,” laughed the little maid. “He follows me wherever I go, unless he is off fishing. Sometimes when I go out in the boat with padre Rosendo he flies clear across the lake to meet us. He is lots older than I, and years ago, when there were Curas here, he learned his song. Whenever the Angelas rang he would try to sing just like it; and now he has the habit and can’t help it. But he is such a dear, wise old fellow,” twining a chubby arm lovingly about the bird’s slender neck; “and he always sings just at six o’clock, the time the Angelas used to ring.”

The heron manifested the deepest affection for the child as she gently stroked its plumage and caressed its long, pointed bill.

“But how do you suppose he knows when it is just six o’clock, chiquita?” asked JosÈ, deeply interested in the strange phenomenon.

“God tells him, Padre,” was the direct and simple reply.

Assuredly, he should have known that! But he was fast learning of this unusual child, whose every movement was a demonstration of Immanuel.

“Does God tell you what to do, Carmen?” he asked, seeking to draw out the girl’s strange thought, that he might probe deeper into her religious convictions.

“Why, yes, Padre.” Her tone expressed surprise. “Doesn’t He tell you, too?” Her great eyes searched him. He was a Cura; he should be very close to God.

“Yes, chiquita––that is, He has told me to-day what to do.”

There was a shade of disappointment in her voice when she replied: “I guess you mean you listened to Him to-day, don’t you, Padre? I think sometimes you don’t want to hear Him. But,” she finished with a little sigh, “there are lots of people here who don’t; and that is why they are sick and unhappy.”

JosÈ was learning another lesson, that of guarding his speech to this ingenuous girl. He discreetly changed the subject.

“What have you been doing this afternoon, little one?”

Her eyes instantly brightened, and the dark shade that had crossed her face disappeared.

“Well, after the siesta I helped madre Maria clean the yuccas for supper; and then I did my writing lesson. Padre Rosendo told me to-day that I could write better than he. But, Padre, will you teach madre Maria to read and write? And there are just lots of poor people here who can’t, too. There is a school teacher in SimitÍ, but he charges a whole peso oro a month for teaching; and the people haven’t the money, and so they can’t learn.”

Always the child shifted his thought from herself to others. Again she showed him that the road to happiness wound among the needs of his fellow-men. The priest mentally recorded the instruction; and the girl continued:

“Padre Rosendo told madre Maria that you said you had come to SimitÍ to die. You were not thinking of us then, were you, Padre? People who think only of themselves always want to die. That was why Don Luis died last year. He had lots of gold, and he always wanted more, and he was cruel and selfish, and he couldn’t talk about anything but himself and how rich he was––and so he died. He didn’t really die; but he thought about himself until he thought he died. And so they buried him. That’s what always happens to people who think about themselves all the time––they get buried.”

JosÈ was glad of the silence that fell upon them. Wrapped so long in his own egoism, he had now no worldly wisdom with which to match this girl’s sapient words. He waited. He felt that Carmen was but the channel through which a great Voice was speaking.

“Padre,” the tones were tender and soft, “you don’t always think of good things, do you?”

“I? Why, no, little girl. I guess I haven’t done so. That is, not always. But––”

“Because if you had you wouldn’t have been driven into the lake that day. And you wouldn’t be here now in SimitÍ.”

“But, child, even a Cura cannot always think of good things, when he sees so much wickedness in the world!”

“But, Padre, God is good, isn’t He?”

“Yes, child.” The necessity to answer could not be avoided.

“And He is everywhere?”

“Yes.” He had to say it.

“Then where is the wickedness, Padre?”

“Why––but, chiquita, you don’t understand; you are too young to reason about such things; and––”

In his heart JosÈ knew he spoke not the truth. He felt the 28 great brown eyes of the girl penetrate his naked soul; and he knew that in the dark recesses of the inner man they fell upon the grinning skeleton of hypocrisy. Carmen might be, doubtless was, incapable of reasoning. Of logical processes she knew nothing. But by what crass assumption might he, admittedly woefully defeated in his combat with Fate, oppose his feeble shafts of worldly logic to this child’s instinct, an instinct of whose inerrancy her daily walk was a living demonstration? In quick penitence and humility he stretched out his arm and drew her unresisting to him.

“Dear little child of God,” he murmured, as he bent over her and touched his lips to her rich brown curls, “I have tried my life long to learn what you already know. And at last I have been led to you––to you, little one, who shall be a lamp unto my feet. Dearest child, I want to know your God as you know Him. I want you to lead me to Him, for you know where He is.”

“He is everywhere, Padre dear,” whispered the child, as she nestled close to the priest and stole her soft arms gently about his neck. “But we don’t see Him nor hear Him if we have bad thoughts, and if we don’t love everybody and everything, even Cucumbra, and Cantar-las-horas, and––”

“Yes, chiquita, I know now,” interrupted JosÈ. “I don’t wonder they all love you.”

“But, Padre dear, I love them––and I love you.”

The priest strained her to him. His famished heart yearned for love. Love! first of the tender graces which adorned this beautiful child. Verily, only those imbued with it become the real teachers of men. The beloved disciple’s last instruction to his dear children was the tender admonition to love one another. But why, oh, why are we bidden to love the fallen, sordid outcasts of this wicked world––the wretched, sinning pariahs––the greedy, grasping, self-centered mass of humanity that surges about us in such woeful confusion of good and evil? Because the wise Master did. Because he said that God was Love. Because he taught that he who loves not, knows not God. And because, oh, wonderful spiritual alchemy! because Love is the magical potion which, dropping like heavenly dew upon sinful humanity, dissolves the vice, the sorrow, the carnal passions, and transmutes the brutish mortal into the image and likeness of the perfect God.

Far into the night, while the child slept peacefully in the bed near him, JosÈ lay thinking of her and of the sharp turn which she had given to the direction of his life. Through the warm night air the hoarse croaking of distant frogs and the mournful note of the toucan floated to his ears. In the street 29 without he heard at intervals the pattering of bare feet in the hot, thick dust, as tardy fishermen returned from their labors. The hum of insects about his toldo lulled him with its low monotone. The call of a lonely jaguar drifted across the still lake from the brooding jungle beyond. A great peace lay over the ancient town; and when, in the early hours of morning, as the distorted moon hung low in the western sky, JosÈ awoke, the soft breathing of the child fell upon his ears like a benediction; and deep from his heart there welled a prayer––

“My God––her God––at last I thank Thee!”