“I––have no money––no money. He promised to give me––money––and clothes––”
“There, carita, I will say Masses for you without money––every day, for a year. And you shall have clothes––ah, carita, in heaven you shall have everything.”
The candle sputtered, and went out. The moon flooded the room with ethereal radiance.
“Padre––lift me up––it grows dark––oh, Padre, you are so good to me––so good.”
“No, child, it is not I who am good to you, but the blessed Christ. See him, carita––there––there in the moonlight he stands!”
The smoke from a neighboring chimney drifted slowly past the window and shone white in the silvery beams. The girl, supported by the arm of the priest, gazed at it through dimming eyes in reverent awe.
“Padre,” she whispered, “it is the Saviour! Pray to him for me.”
“Yes, child.” And turning toward the window the priest extended his hand.
“Blessed Saviour,” he prayed, “this is one of thy stricken lambs, lured by the wolf from the fold. And we have brought her back. Dost thou bid her come?”
The sobs of the weeping woman at his feet floated through the room.