“Good morning, Sister,” he cried heartily. “Well, who’s this?” as his eyes fell upon Carmen. He was a young man, apparently still in the twenties, of athletic build, inclined rather to stoutness, and with a round, shining face that radiated health and good nature.
The Sister quietly returned his cordial greeting. “It is a little waif,” she said in answer to his query, “who strayed in here last night.”
“Aha,” said the priest, “another derelict! And will you send her to the orphanage?”
“I’m afraid if I do the little heretic will corrupt all the other children,” replied the Sister. “Father,” she continued seriously, “I want you to examine this child, and then tell me what you think should be done with her.”
“What is it––health?” asked the priest, studying the girl.
“No,” replied the Sister; “but another priest has gone wrong, and this,” pointing to Carmen, “is the result of his pernicious teachings.”
The priest did not reply for some moments. Then he sighed wearily. “Very well, Sister,” he said in a low voice. “I will talk with her after the service.” He seemed suddenly to have lost his cheerfulness, as he continued to converse with the woman on matters pertaining to the institution.
Carmen, wondering and receptive, took the place assigned to her in the chapel and sat quietly through the service. She had often seen Josè celebrate Mass in the rude little church in Simití, but with no such elaboration as she witnessed here. Once or twice she joined in the responses, not with any thought of worship, but rather to give vent, even if slight, to the impelling desire to hear her own musical voice. She thought as she did so that the priest looked in her direction. She thought others looked at her attentively at the same time. But they had all stared at her, for that matter, and she had felt confused and embarrassed under their searching scrutiny. Yet the old people attracted her peculiarly. Never had she seen so many at one time. And never, she thought, had she seen such physical decrepitude and helplessness. And then she fell to wondering what they were all there for, and what they got out of the service. Did the Mass mean anything to them? Did they believe that thereby their sins were atoned? Did they believe 23 that that priest was really changing the wafer and wine into flesh and blood? She recalled much that Josè had told her about the people up in the States. They were not so different, mentally, from her own, after all.
The Host had been elevated. The people, still gossiping cheerfully, had prostrated themselves before it. The sermon had been short, for the old people waxed impatient at long discourses. Then the priest descended from the pulpit and came to Carmen. “Now, little girl,” he said, seating himself beside her, “tell me all about yourself, who you are, where you come from, and what you have been taught. And do not be afraid. I am your friend.” Carmen smiled up at him; then plunged into her narrative.
It was two hours later when the Sister Superior looked in and saw the priest and girl still sitting in earnest conversation. She stood listening. “But,” she heard the priest say, “you tell me that this Father Josè taught you these things?”