“Padre,” she interrupted, “you do not see me. You are looking only at your bad thoughts of me.”
“Ha! my thoughts, eh?” His laugh resembled the snort of an animal.
“Yes, Padre––and they are very bad thoughts, too––they don’t come from God, and you are so foolish to let them use you the way you do. Why do you, Padre? for you don’t have to. And you know you see around you only the thoughts that you have been thinking. Why don’t you think good thoughts, and so see only good things?”
“Now Mary bless my soul!” he exclaimed in mock surprise. “Can it be that I don’t see a plump little witch before me, but only my bad thoughts, eh? Ha! ha! Caramba! that is good! Bien, then,” he coaxed, “come to your poor, deluded padre and let him learn that you are only a thing of thought, and not the most enchanting little piece of flesh that ever caused a Saint to fall!”
The girl sat silent before him. Her smile had fled, and in its place sadness and pity were written large upon her wistful face.
“Come, my little bundle of thought,” he coaxed, holding out his fat, hairy arms.
“No, Padre,” the girl answered firmly.
“Na, then, still afraid, eh?” he taunted, with rising anger.
“No, Padre; to be afraid would mean that I didn’t understand God.”