The man listened astonished. The words and the simple melody which carried them were evidently an improvisation. But the voice--did that issue from a human throat? Yes, for in distant Spain and far-off Rome, in great cathedrals and concert halls, he had sometimes listened entranced to voices like this--stronger, and delicately trained, but reared upon even less of primitive talent. The girl caught sight of him; and the song died on the warm air. The priest strode toward her and clasped her in his arms. "Carmen, child! Who taught you to sing like that?" The girl smiled up in his face. "God, Padre." Of course! He should have known. And in future he need never ask. "And I suppose He tells you when to sing, too, as He does Cantar-las-horas?" said Josè, smiling in amusement. "No, Padre," was the unaffected answer. "He just sings Himself in me." The man felt rebuked for his light remark; and a lump rose in his throat. He looked again into her fair face with a deep yearning. Oh, ye of little faith! Did you but know--could you but realize--that the kingdom of heaven is within you, would not celestial melody flow from your lips, too? Throughout the afternoon, while he labored with his willing helpers in the church building and his homely cottage, the child's song lingered in his brain, like the memory of a sweet perfume. His eyes followed her lithe, graceful form as she flitted about, and his mind was busy devising pretexts for keeping her near him. At times she would steal up close to him and put her little hand lovingly and confidingly into his own. Then as he looked down into her upturned face, wreathed with smiles of happiness, his breath would catch, and he would turn hurriedly away, that she might not see the tears which suffused his eyes. When night crept down, unheralded, from the _Sierras_, the priest's house stood ready for its occupant. Cantar-las-horas had dedicated it by singing the _Angelus_ at the front door, for the hour of six had overtaken him as he stood, with cocked head, peering curiously within. The dwelling, though pitifully bare, was nevertheless as clean as these humble folk with the primitive means at their command could render it. Instead of the customary hard _macana_ palm strips for the bed, Rosendo had thoughtfully substituted a large piece of tough white canvas, fastened to a rectangular frame, which rested on posts well above the damp floor. On this lay a white sheet and a light blanket of red flannel. Rosendo had insisted that, for the present, Josè should take his meals with him. The priest's domestic arrangements, therefore, would be simple in the extreme; and Doña Maria quietly announced that these were in her charge. The church edifice would not be in order for some days yet, perhaps a week. But of this Josè was secretly glad, for he regarded with dread the necessity of discharging the priestly functions. And yet, upon that hinged his stay in Simití.