"And God taught people how to talk, little one; but they don't all talk as we do. There is a great land up north of us, which we call the United States, and there the people would not understand us, for we speak Spanish. I must teach you their language, _chiquita_, and I must teach you others, too, for you will not always live in Simití." "I want to stay here always, Padre. I love Simití." "No, Carmen; God has work for you out in His big world. You have something to tell His people some day, a message for them. But you and I have much work to do here first. And so we will begin with the arithmetic and English. Later we will study other languages, and we will talk them to each other until you speak them as fluently as your own. And meanwhile, I will tell you about the great countries of the world, and about the people that live in them. And we will study about the stars, and the rocks, and the animals; and we will read and work and read and work all day long, every day!" The priest's face was aglow with animation. "But, Padre, when shall I have time to think?" "Why, you will be thinking all the time, child!" "No, you don't understand. I have to think about other things." Josè looked at her with a puzzled expression. "What other things do you have to think about, _chiquita_?" "About all the people here who are sick and unhappy, and who quarrel and don't love one another." "Do you think about people when they are sick?" he asked with heightened curiosity. "Yes, always!" she replied vigorously "When they are sick I go where nobody can find me and then just think that it isn't so." "_Hombre!_" the priest ejaculated, his astonishment soaring Then-- "But when people are sick it is really so, isn't it, _chiquita_?" "No!" emphatically. "It can't be--not if God is everywhere. Does He make them sick?" The child drove the heart-searching question straight into him. "Why--no, I can't say that He does. And yet they somehow get sick." "Because they think bad things, Padre. Because they don't think about God. They don't think He is here. And they don't care about Him--they don't love Him. And so they get sick," she explained succinctly. Josè's mind reverted to what Rosendo had told him. When he lay tossing in delirium Carmen had said that he would not die. And yet that was perfectly logical, if she refused to admit the existence of evil. "I thought lots about you last week, Padre." The soft voice was close to his ear, and every breath swept over his heartstrings and made them vibrate. "Every night when I went to sleep I told God I _knew_ He would cure you." The priest's head sank upon his breast. Verily, I have not seen such faith, no, not in Israel! And the faith of this child had glorified her vision until she saw "the heavens open and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man." "Carmen"--the priest spoke reverently--"do the sick ones always get well when you think about them?"