“Nothing, child––nothing! Did––er––did your madre Maria say why you must go to Boque?” he asked hesitatingly.
“She said Feliz Gomez died last night of the plague, and that the people were afraid they would all get sick and die too. And she said––Padre dear, she said you were afraid I would get sick, and so you told her to take me away. You didn’t mean that, did you? She didn’t understand you, did she? You are not afraid, are you? You can’t be, you know, can you? You and I are not afraid of anything. We know––don’t we, Padre dear?”
“What do we know, child?” he asked sadly.
“Why––why, we know that God is everywhere!” She looked at him wonderingly. What could she understand of a nature so wavering?––firm when the sun shone bright above––tottering when the blasts of adversity whirled about it? He had said such beautiful things to her, such wonderful things about God and His children only yesterday. And now––why this awful change? Why again this sudden lowering of standards?
He had sunk deep into his dark thoughts. “Death is inevitable!” he muttered grimly, forgetful of the child’s presence.
“Oh, Padre dear!” she pleaded, passing her little hand tenderly over his cheek. Then her face brightened. “I know what it is!” she exclaimed. “You are just trying to think that two and two are seven––and you can’t prove it––and so you’d better stop trying!” She broke into a little forced laugh.
Josè sat wrapped in black silence.
“Padre dear.” Her voice was full of plaintive tenderness. “You have talked so much about that good man Jesus. What would he say if he saw you trying to make two and two equal seven? And if he had been here last night––would he have let Feliz die?”
The priest made no answer. None was required when Carmen put her questions.