He thrust the parrot into a fold of his cassock, made along to where was the perch, and placed her upon it. Then he stood back, folding his arms. “To-morrow is Christmas Day, Loretta,” he said. “And what wilt thou give to Tony? What can the cactus give the golden poppy? Thou hast only love, eh? Well, that is much, though it grows from naught, as a China lily blooms from a bowl of rocks.” He turned, and found himself before the Tree. Fir and pine massed their branches behind it, making a background of plushy green. Against that background, showing full, hung the torn and unclad shape. The moon glinted upon it, haloing the head of the Crucified. The padre sank, bowing, and touched himself in the sign. “_Aw, To-o-ny! To-o-ny!_” came a sleepy croak at his back. The parrot was settling herself for the night. Padre Alonzo rose and turned, reaching up to stroke her. “Good-night, Loretta,” he said fondly. “There were none too lowly for His gift of love. It was spared to thee, a yawping fowl, a talker after the manner of the lazy Mexicans that bred thee.” He turned back upon the path, sighing and raising his eyes once more. “But for high or low,” he said, musing aloud, “the fruit of that love is sacrifice.” * * * * * Out of the chapel came the sounds of the noon service--the level intoning of prayer, the rumble and swell of the padres’ voices. From her place before the great crucifix Loretta mocked it, only ceasing now and then to answer Tony’s warbles with little whistles of delight or to run her open bill up and down the bit of vertical pole dividing her perch. Yesterday’s bout in the kitchen, yesterday’s hunger and fear, the lonely night ramble along the path, the lack of her preening friend--all these were forgotten in to-day’s safety, sunlight, plenty, and companionship. And so she _gurried_ and _purred_, _a-a-awed_ and _ga-a-awked_, shrilled her “_Buenos días!_” across the garden, laughed uproariously, or droned the familiar mass. In reach of her pacing, in touch of her very tail, was the gilded cage, with Tony darting upstairs and down, yet sparing time now and then for a sip or a seed or a saucy chirp. But of a sudden the happy cries of both birds were changed to notes of alarm. The canary, its round eyes starting like two polished shots, fluttered high and low, beating its yellow wings against the wires; while Loretta squared her rudder, spread her pinions and squatted belligerently. For on the ground, advancing that way by soft steps, and with the gloating look of the hunter fixed upon the cage, came Tomasso, the cat.