Doña Maria sat by the bedside, dumb with grief. Josè wrung his hands in despair. The day drew slowly to a close. The Alcalde had dispatched Juan down to the river to signal any steamer that he should meet, if perchance he might purchase a few grains of the only drug that could save the sick man. Carmen had absented herself during the day; but she 89 returned in time to assist Doña Maria with the evening meal, after which she went at once to her bed.
Late at night, when the sympathizing townsmen had sorrowfully departed and Josè had induced Doña Maria to seek a few moments rest on her petate in the living room, Carmen climbed quietly out of her bed and came to where the priest sat alone with the unconscious Rosendo.
Josè was bending over the delirious man. “Oh, if Jesus were only here now!” he murmured.
“Padre dear.”
Josè looked down into the little face beside him.
“People don’t die, you know. They don’t really die.” The little head shook as if to emphasize the words.
Josè was startled. But he put his arm about the child and drew her to him. “Chiquita, why do you say that?” he asked sorrowfully.
“Because God doesn’t die, you know,” she quickly replied. “And we are like Him, Padre, aren’t we?”
“But He calls us to Him, chiquita. And––I guess––He is––is calling your padre Rosendo now.”
Does God kill mankind in order to give them life? Is that His way? Death denies God, eternal Life. And––