There was nothing pantheistic in this; seeing everything as God's she did not see it itself Divine, but every natural object was to her clear vision but a thread in the clear, transparent veil through which God showed Himself everywhere. When St. Francis "preached to the birds" he was in fact listening to their sermon to him; and Mariquita, in her close neighborly friendship with the small wild creatures of the prairie, was only worshipping the ineffable, kind friendliness of God, who had made, and who fed, them also. The love she gave them was only one of the myriad silent expressions of her love for Him, who loved them. They were easier and simpler to understand than her human neighbors. It was not that, for an instant, she thought them on the same plane of interest--but we must here interrupt ourselves as she was interrupted. CHAPTER XI. Mariquita had been alone a long time when Gore, riding home, came suddenly upon her. She was sitting where a clump of trees cast now a shadow, and it was only in coming round them that he saw her when already very near her. The ground was soft there, and his horse's hoofs had made scarcely any sound. She turned her head, and he saluted her, at the same moment slipping from the saddle. "I thought you were far away," she said. "I have been far away--at Maxwell. It has been a long ride." "Yes, that is a long way," she said. "But I never go there." "No? I went to hear Mass." She was surprised, never having thought that he was a Catholic. "I did not know you were a Catholic," she told him. "No wonder! I have been here a month and never been to Mass before." "It is so far. I never go." "You _are_ a Catholic, then?" "Oh, yes; I think all Spaniards are Catholics." "But not all Americans," Gore suggested smiling. "No. And of course, we are Americans, my father and I." "Exactly. No doubt I knew your names, both surname and Christian name, were Spanish, and I supposed you were of Catholic descent--" "Only," she interrupted with a quiet matter-of-factness, "you saw we never went to Mass." "Perhaps a priest comes here sometimes and gives you Mass." "No, never. If it were not so very far, I suppose my father would let me ride down to Maxwell occasionally, at all events. But he would not let me go alone, and none of the men are Catholics; besides, he would not wish me to go with one of them; and then it would be necessary to go down on Saturday and sleep there. Of course, he would not permit that. But," and she did not smile as she said this, "it must seem strange to you, who are a Catholic, to think that I, who am one also, should never hear Mass. Since I left the Convent and came home I do not hear it. That may scandalize you." "I shall never be scandalized by you," he answered, also without smiling. "That is best," she said. "It is generally foolish to be scandalized, because we can know so little about each other's case."