"Chiquita," he continued earnestly, "my greatest care in bringing you up has ever been to keep you the pure and simple being that you were when you came to me. Do not forget—God demandeth that the souls which he gave into our keeping should be returned unto him again in the same pure unblemished state that we received them. Therefore, take heed, my child, for although God has endowed you with great beauty of both mind and body, do not foolishly imagine that, by arraying yourself in the vanities of this world, you can add an atom to the natural beauty He has bestowed upon you already. Be but pleasing in God's sight and it must follow that you will please all men as well."
"Oh! you really do think me beautiful, Padre?" she cried, a radiant look on her face.
"My child, my child, you do not listen to what I have to say!" he groaned despairingly.
"Oh, yes, I do, Padre mio! But you forget that, when God endowed woman with a soul, he gave her a heart as well. Willingly we render our souls unto God, but our hearts belong to men." The logic of her argument was too much for Padre Antonio, and he laughed as she had never seen him laugh before.
"Verily," he said at length, wiping the tears from his eyes and reseating himself on the bench, "the spirit and flesh must ever contend for the mastery of the soul on earth; it is our fate—the good Lord intended that it should be so."
"Ah, yes," she returned. "It's not always the good that seems to please us most in this world."
"Aye, verily!" he rejoined, relapsing into silence. Again the linnet gave voice to his song, and the cooling breeze sighed among the tamarisk plumes that waved about their heads.
"Do you remember when you first came to me, Chiquita mia?" he asked at last.
"That was ten years ago, Padre."
"I then thought," he went on, "that the good Lord had sent you to me to make a little angel out of you, but—"