“God will take care of him, won’t He, Padre?”
Josè had taken her hand and was leading her back to the house.
“You have said it, child; and I believe you are a law unto yourself,” was the priest’s low, earnest reply. The child smiled up at him; and Josè knew he had spoken truth.
That evening, the preparations for departure completed, Rosendo and Josè took their chairs out before the house, where they sat late, each loath to separate lest some final word be left unsaid. The tepid evening melted into night, which died away in a deep silence that hung wraith-like over the old town. Myriad stars rained their shimmering lustre out of the unfathomable vault above.
“Un canasto de flores,” mused Rosendo, looking off into the infinite blue.
“A basket of flowers, indeed,” responded Josè reverently.
“Padre––” Rosendo’s brain seemed to struggle with a tremendous thought––“I often try to think of what is beyond the stars; and I cannot. Where is the end?”
“There is none, Rosendo.”
“But, if we could get out to the last star––what then?”