"No, child, it is not I who am good to you, but the blessed Christ.
See him, _carita_--there--there in the moonlight he stands!"

The smoke from a neighboring chimney drifted slowly past the window
and shone white in the silvery beams. The girl, supported by the arm
of the priest, gazed at it through dimming eyes in reverent awe.

"Padre," she whispered, "it is the Saviour! Pray to him for me."

"Yes, child." And turning toward the window the priest extended his
hand.

"Blessed Saviour," he prayed, "this is one of thy stricken lambs,
lured by the wolf from the fold. And we have brought her back. Dost
thou bid her come?"

The sobs of the weeping woman at his feet floated through the room.

"Ah, thou tender and pitying Master--best friend of the sinning, the
sick, and the sorrowing--we offer to thee this bruised child. We find
no sin, no guile, in her; for after the ignorant code of men she has
paid the last farthing for satisfying the wolf's greed. Dost thou bid
her come?"

In the presence of death he felt his own terrible impotence. Of what
avail then was his Christianity? Or the Church's traditional words of
comfort? The priest's tears fell fast. But something within--perhaps
that "something not ourselves"--the voice of Israel's almost forgotten
God--whispered a hope that blossomed in this petition of tenderest
love and pity. He had long since ceased to pray for himself; but in
this, the only prayer that had welled from his chilled heart in
months, his pitying desire to humor the wishes of a dying girl had
unconsciously formulated his own soul's appeal.

"Blessed Saviour, take her to thine arms; shield her forever more
from the carnal lust of the wolf; lift her above the deadening
superstitions and hypocritical creeds of those who touch but to
stain; take her, Saviour, for we find her pure, innocent, clean;
suffering and sorrow have purged away the sin. Dost thou bid her
come?"

The scent of roses and orange blossoms from the garden below drifted
into the room on the warm breeze. A bird, awakened by the swaying of
its nest, peeped a few sweet notes of contentment, and slept again.

"We would save her--we would cure her--but we, too, have strayed from
thee and forgotten thy commands--and the precious gift of healing
which thou didst leave with men has long been lost. But thou art
here--thy compassionate touch still heals and saves. Jesus, unique son
of God, behold thy child. Wilt thou bid her come?"

"W