"Padre dear." The pathetic little voice wrung his heart. "Padre dear, when madre Maria told me I had to go to Boque, I went to your house to ask you, and--and you weren't there. And I couldn't find padre Rosendo either--and there wasn't anybody in the streets at all--and I came up here. Then I saw the blanket out on the hill, and I kept hunting for you--I wanted to see you _so_ much. And when I saw the door of the church broken, I thought you might be in here--and so I came in--and, oh, Padre dear, I was _so_ glad to find you--but I wouldn't wake you up--and while you were sleeping I just _knew_ that God was taking care of you all the time--" Josè had sunk again upon the bench. "Padre dear!" Carmen came flying to him across the darkness and threw her arms about his neck. "Padre dear! I just couldn't stand it to leave you!" The flood-gates opened wide, and the girl sobbed upon his shoulder. "Carmen--child!" But his own tears were mingling freely with hers. The strain of the preceding night had left him weak. He strove feebly to loosen the tightly clasped arms of the weeping girl. Then he buried his drawn face in her thick curls and strained her to his heaving breast. What this might mean to Carmen he knew full well. But--why not have it so? If she preceded him into the dark vale, it would be for only a little while. He would not live without her. The sobs died away, and the girl looked up at the suffering man. "Padre dear, you will not send me away--will you?" she pleaded. "No! no!" he cried fiercely, "not now!" A happy little sigh escaped her lips. Then she drew herself closer to him and whispered softly, "Padre dear--I love you." A groan burst from the man. "God above!" he cried, "have you the heart to let evil attack such a one as this!" The girl looked up at him in wonder. "Why, Padre dear--what is it? Tell me." "Nothing, child--nothing! Did--er--did your madre Maria say why you must go to Boque?" he asked hesitatingly. "She said Feliz Gomez died last night of the plague, and that the people were afraid they would all get sick and die too. And she said--Padre dear, she said you were afraid I would get sick, and so you told her to take me away. You didn't mean that, did you? She didn't understand you, did she? You are not afraid, are you? You can't be, you know, can you? You and I are not afraid of anything. We _know_--don't we, Padre dear?" "What do we know, child?" he asked sadly. "Why--why, we know that God is _everywhere_!" She looked at him wonderingly. What could she understand of a nature so wavering?--firm when the sun shone bright above--tottering when the blasts of adversity whirled about it? He had said such beautiful things to her, such wonderful things about God and His children only yesterday. And now--why this awful change? Why again this sudden lowering of standards? He had sunk deep into his dark thoughts. "Death is inevitable!" he muttered grimly, forgetful of the child's presence.