“Cucumbra, you let bad thoughts use you, didn’t you? Yes, you did; and you’re sorry for it now. Well, there’s the puppy,” pointing to the little dog, which stood hesitant some yards away. “Now go and play with him,” she urged. “Play with him!” rousing the larger dog and pointing toward the puppy. “Play with him! You know you love him!”
Cucumbra hesitated, looking alternately at the small, resolute girl and the smaller dog. Her arm remained rigidly extended, and determination was written large in her set features. The puppy uttered a sharp bark, as if in forgiveness, and began to scamper playfully about. Cucumbra threw a final glance at the girl.
“Play with him!” she again commanded.
The large dog bounded after the puppy, and together they disappeared around the street corner.
The child turned and saw Josè, who had regarded the scene in mute astonishment.
“Muy buenos dias, Señor Padre,” dropping a little courtesy. “But isn’t Cucumbra foolish to have bad thoughts?”
“Why, yes––he certainly is,” replied Josè slowly, hard pressed by the unusual question.
“He has just got to love that puppy, or else he will never be happy, will he, Padre?”
Why would this girl persist in ending her statements with an interrogation! How could he know whether Cucumbra’s happiness would be imperfect if he failed in love toward the puppy?