Everything around it was bleak and lean, the plaster falling from the walls both outside and inside. They tried to enter, but the door was locked. Through the windows they could see the little altar adorned with bright tissue-paper flowers. There appeared to be no one in the vicinity, and Walter, in a spirit of mischief, picked up a stick from the ground and touched the bell which hung in front of the door on two heavy crossbeams, gnarled and worm-eaten.
"Walter, you should not have done that," said the father, as a single, sharp, clear note resounded through the air.
"It is what they all do," said a boyish voice back of him. "It is a beautiful sound, don't you think?"
"Where did you come from, my boy?" asked Mr. Page as the young stranger advanced. He was about Walter's age, clad in blue overalls and flannel shirt. The battered felt hat which served him as head covering was held in his hand.
"I live there," he replied, pointing to a ruined adobe house at some distance behind the church. "I live there with Mauricio. He is my uncle. He is the priest."
"The priest!" exclaimed Mr. Page. "And living in such a place! Are you not an Indian boy?" he continued, looking at the swarthy skin, black eyes and raven hair. "Surely you are an Indian, and there are no Indian priests, in this country, at least."
"He is not a real priest, my uncle," replied the boy. "But that is what they call him—the Protestants, I mean. I told you that way just for fun."
He was smiling broadly, showing his white teeth, and his eyes twinkled merrily.
"How did you know we were Catholics?" inquired Mr. Page rather gravely, not very well pleased at this facetiousness.