Josè's life was never before so full. And never so sweet. To his little flock he was now preaching the Word of God only as he could interpret it to meet their simple needs. Gradually, as he got closer to them, he sought to enlighten them and to draw them at least a little way out of the dense materialism of their present religious beliefs. He also strove to give them the best of his own worldly knowledge, and to this end was talking to them three nights a week in the church building, where the simple people hung upon his words like children enwrapped in fairy lore. He was holding regular Sunday services, and offering Masses during the week for those of his parishioners who requested them, and who would have been shocked, puzzled, and unhappy had he refused to do so, or attempted to prove their uselessness. He was likewise saying diurnal Masses for the little Maria, to whom, as she lay breathing her last in his arms in Cartagena, he had given the promise to offer them daily in her behalf for, a year. Nor was this the extent of his loving sacrifice for the girl. He had already sent a small sum of money to Catalina by Captain Julio, who promised to arrange at Calamar for its transmission, and for the safe convoy of a similar small packet monthly to Cartagena and into the hands of the two women who were caring for the infant son of Wenceslas and the ill-fated Maria. He had promised her that night that he would care for her babe. And his life had long since shown what a promise meant to him. He knew he would be unable to learn of the child's progress directly from these women, for they were both illiterate. But Captain Julio brought an encouraging message from them, and assured Josè that he would always make inquiry for the babe on his trips down the river. Josè's long-distance dealings with the genial captain had been conducted through Juan, who had constituted himself the priest's faithful servant and the distant worshiper of the child Carmen. "Padre Josè," Juan had said one day, striving vainly to hide his embarrassment, "the little Carmen grows very beautiful. She is like the Pascua-flower, that shines through the ferns in the _caño_. She is like the great blue butterfly, that floats on the sunbeams that sift through the forest trees." "Yes, Juan, she is very beautiful." "Padre, you love her much, is it not so?" "Very much, indeed, Juan." "And I, Padre, I, too, love her." He paused and dug the hard ground with his bare toes. "Padre," he resumed, "the little Carmen will marry--some day, will she not?" Josè started. The thought had never occurred to him! Carmen marry? After all, she was human, and-- But, no, he could not, he would not, think of it! "Why, Juan--I--cannot say--" "But, Padre, she will." Juan was growing bolder. "And--and, Padre, I--I should like it if she would marry me. Ah, _Señor Padre_, already I adore her!"