Suddenly her thought reverted to Cartagena, and to the sturdy little lad who had so proudly claimed the name of Rincón. For a moment she stood still. Then she burst into tears and threw herself back upon the bed.
But she did not lie there long. “I must think only God’s thoughts,” she said, struggling to her feet and checking her grief. “If it is right for the little boy to be his son, then I must want it to be so. I must want only the right––I have got to want it! And if it is not right now, then God will make it so. It is all in His hands, and I must not think of it any more, unless I think right thoughts.”
She dressed herself quickly, but did not put on the shoes. “I simply can not wear these things,” she mourned, looking at them dubiously; “and I do not believe the woman will make me. I wonder why the other woman called her Sister. Why did she wear that ugly black bonnet? And why was I hurried away from that hotel? It was so much pleasanter there, so bright and warm; and here it is so cold.” She shivered as she buttoned her thin dress. “But,” she continued, “I have got to go out now and find Mr. Reed and Mr. Harris––I have just got to find them––and to-day! But, oh, this city is so much larger than Simití!”
She shook her head in perplexity as she put the Bible back again in the bundle, where lay the title papers to La Libertad and her mother’s little locket, which Rosendo had given her that last morning in Simití. The latter she drew out and regarded wistfully for some moments. “I haven’t any father or mother but God,” she murmured. “But He is both father and mother to me now.” With a little sigh she tied up the bundle again. Holding it in one hand and carrying the much despised shoes in the other, she left the cheerless room and started down the long, cold hall.
When she reached the stairway leading to the floor below 18 she stopped abruptly. “Anita’s babe!” she exclaimed half-aloud. “I have been thinking only of myself. It is not blind! It sees! It sees as God sees! What is it that the Bible says?––‘And I will bring them by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight.’ I must know that––always! And Padre Josè said he would remember it, too.”
Again she choked back the tears which surged up at the remembrance of the priest, and, bracing herself, hastily descended the stairs, murmuring at every step, “God is everywhere––right here!”
At the far end of the lower hall she saw, through an open door, a number of elderly people sitting at long tables. Toward them she made her way. When she reached the door, she stopped and peered curiously within. A murmur of astonishment rose from the inmates when they caught sight of the quaint object in the doorway, standing uncertainly, with her shoes in one hand, the awkwardly tied bundle in the other, and garbed in the chaotic attire so hastily procured for her in Cartagena.
A Sister came quickly forward and, taking the girl’s hand, led her into a smaller adjoining room, where sat the Sister Superior at breakfast. The latter greeted the child gently and bade her be seated at the table. Carmen dropped into a chair and sat staring in naïve wonder.
“Well,” began the Sister at length, “eat your breakfast quickly. This is Sunday, you know, and Mass will be said in the chapel in half an hour. You look frightened. I don’t wonder. But you are with friends here, little girl. What is your name?”
Carmen quickly recovered her spirits, and her nimble tongue its wonted flexibility. Without further invitation or preface she entered at once upon a lively description of her wonderful journey through the jungle, the subsequent ocean voyage, and the mishap at the pier, and concluded with the cryptical remark: “And, you know, Señora, it is all just as Padre Josè said, only a series of states of consciousness, after all!”