“Listen, Sanchicha,” said the father, gravely. “It is important that thou shouldst refresh thy memory for a moment. Look back fourteen years, mother; it is but yesterday to thee. Thou dost remember the baby--a little muchacha thou broughtest me then--fourteen years ago?” The old woman's eyes became intelligent, and turned with a quick look towards the open door of the church, and thence towards the choir. The Padre made a motion of irritation. “No, no! Thou dost not understand; thou dost not attend me. Knowest thou of any mark of clothing, trinket, or amulet found upon the babe?” The light of the old woman's eyes went out. She might have been dead. Father Pedro waited a moment, and then laid his hand impatiently on her shoulder. “Dost thou mean there are none?” A ray of light struggled back into her eyes. “None.” “And thou hast kept back or put away no sign nor mark of her parentage? Tell me, on this crucifix.” The eyes caught the crucifix, and became as empty as the orbits of the carven Christ upon it. Father Pedro waited patiently. A moment passed; only the sound of the muleteer's spurs was heard in the courtyard. “It is well,” he said at last, with a sigh of relief. “Pepita shall give thee some refreshment, and Jose will bring thee back again. I will summon him.” He passed out of the sacristy door, leaving it open. A ray of sunlight darted eagerly in, and fell upon the grotesque heap in the corner. Sanchicha's eyes lived again; more than that, a singular movement came over her face. The hideous caverns of her toothless mouth opened--she laughed. The step of Jose was heard in the corridor, and she became again inert.