t 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 that that priest was really changing the wafer and wine
into flesh and blood? She recalled much that Jose 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 Jose 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