While the child prattled she drew a chair to the bedside and arranged the bowl of broth and the two wheat rolls she had brought.
“You are real hungry, and you are going to eat all of this and get strong again. Right away!” she added, emphatically expressing her confidence in the assumption.
Josè made no reply. He seemed again to be trying to sound the unfathomable depths of the child’s brown eyes. Mechanically he took the spoon she handed him.
“See!” she exclaimed, while her eyes danced. “A silver spoon! Madre Ariza borrowed it from Doña Maria Alcozer. They have lots of silver. Now eat.”
From his own great egoism, his years of heart-ache, sorrows, and shames, the priest’s heavy thought slowly lifted and centered upon the child’s beautiful face. The animated little figure before him radiated such abundant life that he himself caught the infection; and with it his sense of weakness passed like an illusion.
“And look, Padre! The broth––isn’t it good?”
Josè tasted, and declared it delicious.
“Well, you know”––the enthusiastic little maid clambered up on the bed––“yesterday it was Mañuela––she was my hen. I told her a week ago that you would need her––”
“And you gave up your hen for me, little one?” he interrupted.
“Why––yes, Padre. It was all right. I told her how it was. And she clucked so hard, I knew she was glad to help the good Cura. And she was so happy about it! I told her she really wouldn’t die. You know, things never do––do they?”