“Carmen,” replied the girl, “Carmen Ariza.”
“Cair-men Aree––now ain’t that a name fer ye! An’ yer nationality, girl?”
“I’m a Colombian, Katie.”
“Whist! Where is it? In Afrikay?”
“South America,” with a little sigh.
“Now think o’ that! An’ I’m Scotch-Irish, honey; an’ we’re both a long way from th’ ol’ sod! Lassie dear, tell me about last night. But, no; begin ’way back. Give us th’ whole tale. Old Katie’s weak in th’ head, girlie, but she may see a way out fer ye. Th’ Virgin help ye, puir bairn!”
Midnight boomed from the bell in a neighboring tower when Carmen finished her story.
“Be the Saints above!” exclaimed the old Sister, staring at the girl in amazement. “Now do ye let me feel of ye to see that ye air human; fer only a Saint could go through all that an’ live to tell it! An’ the place ye were in last night! Now be Saint Patrick, if I was rich I’d have Masses said every day fer that Jude who brung ye here! Don’t tell me th’ good Lord won’t forgive her! Och, God! she’s a Saint already.”
“She’s a good woman, Katie; and, somehow, I felt sorry for her, but I don’t know why. She has a beautiful home in that hotel––”
“Hotel, is it! Hivins above! But––och, sure, it was a hotel, honey. Only, ye air better off here wi’ old Katie.”