At the far right-hand corner of the building a lean-to had been erected to serve as the sacristía, or vestry. In the worm-eaten wardrobe within hung a few vestments, adorned with cheap finery, and heavily laden with dust, over which scampered vermin of many varieties. An air of desolation and abandon hung over the whole church, and to Josè seemed to symbolize the decay of a sterile faith.
Rosendo carefully dusted off a bench near one of the windows and bade Josè be seated.
“Padre,” he began, after some moments of deep reflection, “the little Carmen is not an ordinary child.”
“I have seen that, Rosendo,” interposed Josè.
“We––we do not understand her,” Rosendo went on, carefully weighing his words; “and we sometimes think she is not––not altogether like us––that her coming was a miracle. But you do not believe in miracles,” he added quizzically.
“Why do you say that, Rosendo?” Josè returned in surprise.
Rosendo paused before replying.
“You were very sick, Padre; and in the fever you––” the impeccably honest fellow hesitated.
“Yes, I thought so,” said Josè with an air of weary resignation. “And what else did I say, Rosendo?”
The faultless courtesy of the artless Rosendo, a courtesy so genuine that Josè knew it came right from the heart, made conversation on this topic a matter of extreme difficulty to him.