“I do not know,” replied the little fellow, shaking his head. “I never saw him. He lives far away, up the great river, so Tia Catalina says. And she says he is a priest.”
The color suddenly left Carmen’s cheeks. “Come with me to your home,” she said, taking his hand.
The boy led them willingly through the winding streets to the little upper room where, years before, he had first seen the light.
“Tia Catalina,” he cried to the shabby woman who rose in amazement as the visitors entered, “see, some strangers!”
Carmen lost no time, but went at once to the heart of her question.
“The little fellow’s father––he is a Rincón? And––he lives up the great river?”
The woman eyed her suspiciously for some moments without replying. But the boy answered for her. “Yes, señorita,” he said eagerly, “in Simití. And his name––I am named for him––it is Josè. And I am going to visit him some day. Tia Catalina said I should, no, Tia?”
Harris fumbled in his pocket and drew out some money, which he handed to the woman. Her eyes lighted, and a cavernous smile spread over her wrinkled face.
“Ah, gracias, señor,” she murmured, bending over his hand; “we need it. The boy’s father has sent us but little of late.”
Carmen’s heart was fluttering wildly. “Tell me,” she said in 379 a cold voice, “the boy’s father is Padre Josè de Rincón, of Simití? You need not fear to speak. We have just come from Simití, and have seen him. We are leaving to-morrow for the States.”