dre, suspiciously.

"Because I reckon I thought a man might be allowed to confess something
short of a murder. If you're going to draw the line below that--"

"This is but sacrilegious levity," interrupted Father Pedro, turning as
if to go. But the stranger did not make any movement to detain him.

"Have you implored forgiveness of the father--the man you
wronged--before you came here?" asked the priest, lingering.

"Not much. It wouldn't pay if he was living, and he died four years
ago."

"You are sure of that?"

"I am."

"There are other relations, perhaps?"

"None."

Father Pedro was silent. When he spoke again, it was with a changed
voice. "What is your purpose, then?" he asked, with the first indication
of priestly sympathy in his manner. "You cannot ask forgiveness of the
earthly father you have injured, you refuse the intercession of holy
Church with the Heavenly Father you have disobeyed. Speak, wretched man!
What is it you want?"

"I want to find the child."

"But if it were possible, if she were still living, are you fit to seek
her, to even make yourself known to her, to appear before her?"

"Well, if I made it profitable to her, perhaps."

"Perhaps," echoed the priest, scornfully. "So be it. But why come here?"

"To ask your advice. To know how to begin my search. You know this
country. You were here when that boat drifted ashore beyond that
mountain."

"Ah, indeed. I have much to do with it. It is an affair of the
alcalde--the authorities--of your--your police."

"Is it?"

The Padre again met the stranger's eyes. He stopped, with the snuff box
he had somewhat ostentatiously drawn from his pocket still open in his
hand.

"Why is it not, Senor?" he demanded.

"If she lives, she is a young lady by this time, and might not want the
details of her life known to any one."

"And how will you recognize your baby in this young lady?" asked Father
Pedro, with a rapid gesture, indicating the comparative heights of a
baby and an adult.

"I reckon I'll know her, and her clothes too; and whoever found her
wouldn't be fool enough to destroy them."

"After fourteen years! Good! you have faith, Senor--"

"Cranch," supplied the stranger, consulting his watch. "But time's up.
Business is business. Good-by; don't let me keep you."

He extended his hand.

The Padre met it with a dry, unsympathetic palm, as sere and yellow
as the hills. When their hands separated, the father still hesitated,
lo