But she had only a moment for this appraisal. Seizing her hand again, the woman whisked her up the flight of stairs before them and into a warm, light room. Then, without speaking, she went out and closed the door, leaving the girl alone.

Carmen sank into a great, upholstered rocking chair and tried to grasp it all as she swayed dreamily back and forth. So this was his home, Mr. Reed's. It was a palace! Like those Jose had described. She wondered if Harris dwelt in a place of such heavenly beauty; for he had said that he did not live with Reed. What would the stupid people of Simiti think could they see her now! She had never dreamed that such marvels existed in the big world beyond her dreary, dusty, little home town! Jose had told her much, ah, wonderful things! And so had Harris. But how pitifully inadequate now seemed all their stories! She still wondered what had made that carriage go in which she had come up from the boat. And what would one like it cost? Would her interest in La Libertad suffice to buy one? She speculated vaguely.

Then she rose and wandered about the room. She passed her hand over the clean, white counterpane of the bed. "Oh," she murmured, "how beautiful!" She went dreamily to the bureau and took up, one by one, the toilet articles that lay there in neat array. "Oh, oh, oh!" she murmured, again and again. She glanced into the clear mirror. The little figure reflected there contrasted so oddly with the gorgeously beautiful ones she had glimpsed below that she laughed aloud. Then she went to the window and felt of the soft curtains. "It is heaven," she murmured, facing about and sweeping the room, "just heaven! Oh, how beautiful even the human mind can be! I never thought it, I never thought it!"

Again she sat down in the big rocker and gave herself up to the charm of her surroundings. Her glance fell upon a vase of flowers that stood on a table near another window. She rose and went to them, bending over to inhale their fragrance. "How strange!" she exclaimed, as she felt them crackle in her fingers. Poor child, they were artificial! But she would learn, ere long, that they fittingly symbolized the life of the great city in which she was now adrift.

Time passed. She began to wonder why the woman did not return. Were not the Reeds anxious to know of her safe arrival? But perhaps they had visitors. Surely that was the case. It was a ball—but so different from the simple, artless baile of her native town. Stray snatches of music drifted into the room from the piano below. It stimulated a hunger for more. She went to the door, thinking to open it a little and listen. The door was locked!

For a moment she stood reflecting. Then apprehension began to steal over her. She went hastily, instinctively, to a window and raised the curtain. There were iron bars in front of it! She remembered suddenly that prison windows were like that. She hurried to the other. It was likewise barred. Terror's clammy hand gripped at her heart. Then she caught herself—and laughed. "How silly!" she exclaimed, sinking again into the rocker. "God is everywhere—right here!"

At that moment the door opened noiselessly and a woman entered. She was younger than the one who had met the boat. When she saw the girl she uttered an exclamation. "Lord! where did you get those clothes?"

Carmen glanced down at her odd attire and then smiled up at the woman. "Cartagena," she said simply. "Mrs. Reed bought them for me. But are you her sister? You don't look like her."

The woman laughed, a sharp, unmusical laugh. The dry cosmetic plastered thick upon her cheeks cracked. She was not beautiful like the others, thought Carmen. Her cheeks were sunken, and her low-cut gown revealed great, protruding collarbones. "Come," she said abruptly, "get out of those rags and into something modern." She opened a closet door and selected a gown from a number hanging there. It was white, and there was a gay ribbon at the waist.

"It'll have to be pinned up," she commented to herself, holding it out before her and regarding Carmen critically.

The girl's eyes danced. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "am I to wear that? How beautiful! Did Mrs. Reed give it to me? And is there a party down stairs?"

The woman returned no answer, but opened a bureau drawer and took from it several other garments, which she threw upon a chair, together with the dress.

"Into the whole lot of 'em," she said sharply, indicating the garments. "And move lively, for supper's waitin' and there'll be callers soon—gentlemen callers," she added, smiling grimly.

She turned and faced Carmen. Their eyes met. The woman stopped abruptly and stood with arms akimbo, regarding the girl. Carmen gazed up at her with a smile of happy, trustful assurance.

The woman was the first to speak. "Where did you come from?" she demanded hoarsely.

Carmen told her. She mentioned Simiti, Padre Jose, and Rosendo. Her voice quavered a little; but she brightened up and concluded: "And Mr. Reed's Auntie, she met us—that is, me. Oh, isn't she a beautiful lady!"

The woman seemed to be fascinated by the child's gaze. Then, suddenly, as if something had given way under great strain, she cried: "For God's sake, don't look at me that way! Who are you?" She dropped into a chair and continued to stare at the girl.

"Well, I've told you," replied Carmen. "But," she continued, going quickly to the woman and taking her hand, "you haven't told me your name yet. And we are going to be such good friends, aren't we? Yes, we are. And you are going to tell me all about this beautiful house, and that wonderful carriage I came here in. What did make it go, anyway? Do you ride often? Oh, I hope Mrs. Reed will take me out in it every day!"

The woman's hand tightened over Carmen's. She seemed to struggle with herself. Then, in a low voice:

"Your mother—is she living?"

"Madre Maria is," returned Carmen. "But my mother, my own real mother, she died, long, long ago, on the banks of the great river. My father left her, and she was trying to follow him. Then I was born—"

"The same old story!" muttered the woman fiercely. "I've been there, girl, and know all about it. I followed the man—but it was my kid that died! God, if I could have laid my hands on him! And now you have come here—"

She stopped abruptly and swallowed hard. Carmen gently stole an arm about her neck. "It isn't true," she murmured, laying her soft cheek against the woman's painted one. "No one can desert us or harm us, for God is everywhere. And no one really dies. We have got to know that. Padre Jose said I had a message for the people up here; and now you are the first one I've told it to. But that's it: God is everywhere. And if we know that, why, nothing bad can ever happen to us. But you didn't know it when your husband left you, did you?"

"Husband!" ejaculated the woman. Then she looked up into the girl's deep, wondering eyes and checked herself. "Come," she said abruptly, rising and still holding her hand. "Never mind the clothes." A grim look settled over her features. "We'll go down to supper now as you are."

Carmen's companion led her down the stairs and through the hall to a brightly lighted room at the rear, where about a long table sat a half dozen women. There were places for as many more, but they were unoccupied. The cloth was white, the glass shone, the silver sparkled. And the women, who glanced up at the girl, were clad in gowns of such gorgeous hues as to make the child gasp in amazement. Over all hung the warm, perfumed air that she had thought so delicious when she had first entered the house.

The noisy chatter at once ceased. The woman led her to a chair next to the one she herself took. Carmen looked around for the lady who had met her at the boat. She was not there. The silence and the steady scrutiny of the others began to embarrass her. "Where—where is Auntie?" she asked timidly, looking up at her faded attendant.

A titter ran around the table. One of the women, who swayed slightly in her chair, looked up stupidly. "Who's Auntie?" she muttered thickly. A burst of laughter followed this remark, and Carmen sat down in confusion.

"Where's the Madam, Jude?" asked one of the younger women of Carmen's attendant.

"Dining alone in her room. Headache," was the laconic reply.

"She landed a queen this time, didn't she?" looking admiringly at Carmen. "Gets me, how the old girl does it! What's your name, kiddo?"

"Carmen," replied the girl timidly, looking questioningly about the room.

"That's a good handle. But what's the rest?" put in another.

"Carmen Ariza," the child amended, as her big, wondering eyes swept the group.

"Wow! That's a moniker for you!" laughed one. "Where do you hail from, angel-face?"

The girl looked uncomprehendingly at her interlocutor.

"Your home, you know. I see your finish, all right. But where'd you begin?"

"Tell them where you lived, child," said the woman called Jude in a low voice.

"Simiti," replied Carmen, tears choking her words.

"Simiti!" echoed around the table. "New York? Ohio? Or Kansas?" A burst of mirth punctuated the question.

"Do the women vote there?"

"Long way from Paris, judging by the fashions."

"Where is Simiti, kidlet?"

Carmen answered in a scarcely audible voice, "South America."

Low exclamations of astonishment encircled the table, while the women sat regarding the girl curiously.

"But," continued Carmen in a trembling voice, "where is Mrs. Reed? And isn't Mr. Harris here? Why don't they come? Don't they know I am here?"

She looked appealingly from one to another. Her beautiful face wore such an expression of mingled fear, uncertainty, and helplessness as to throw a hush upon the room. One of the women rose. "God!" she muttered, "it's a shame!" She looked for a moment uncertainly into the big, deep eyes of the girl, and then turned and hastily left the room.

The silence which followed was broken by a pallid, painted creature at the end of the table.

"What an old devil the Madam is! My God! One look into those eyes would have been enough for me!"

"What's the idea, Jude?" asked another, nodding toward the girl. "Does she stay here?"

The woman addressed as Jude shook her head. "This is only a recruiting station for the regular army. She'll go over to French Lucy's; and the Madam will get a round price for the job."

"Old Lucy'll get rich off of her! But she needs the money. Ames owns her house, too, doesn't he?"

"Sure thing!" replied Jude, brightening under the stimulus of her wine. "He owns every house in this block, they say. Got long leases for 'em all. And the rents—suffering Moses! The Madam rolls on the floor and cusses for a week straight every time she pays hers. But just the same, if you've ever noticed, the houses that Ames owns are never raided by the coppers. Ames whacks up with the mayor and the city hall gang and the chief of police. That means protection, and we pay for it in high rents. But it's a lot better'n being swooped down on by the cops every few weeks, ain't it? We know what we're expected to pay, that way. And we never do when we keep handin' it out to the cops."

"That's right," approved some one.

"It sure is. That's what the collector says. And he's got a new collector, fellow from the Ketchim Realty Company. They're the old man's agents now for his dive-houses. He can't get anybody else to handle 'em, so the collector tells me."

"Belle Carey's place was pulled last night, I hear," said one of the women, pushing back her plate and lighting a cigarette.

"Yes," returned Jude, "and why? Cause the house is owned by Gannette—swell guy livin' up on Riverside Drive—and he don't divvy with the city hall. Belle don't pay no such rent as the Madam does—at least so old Lucy tells me."

The half-intoxicated woman down the table, who had stirred their laughter a few minutes before, now roused up heavily. "Ol' Lucy—huh! Used to work for her m'self. Caught a pippin for her once—right off the train—jus' like this li'l hussy. Went to th' depot in a hack. Saw th' li'l kid comin' an' pretended to faint. Li'l kid run to me an' asked could she help. Got her to see me safe home—tee! hee! She's workin' f'r ol' Lucy yet, sound's a dollar."

She fixed her bleared eyes upon Carmen and lapsed back into her former state of sodden stupidity.

The girl rose hastily from her chair. The policeman's words at the pier were floating confusedly through her thought. The strange talk of these women increased the confusion. Perhaps a mistake had been made. She turned beseechingly to Jude. "Isn't this—Mr. Reed's house?" she asked.

Another of the women got up hurriedly and left the table. "I haven't the nerve for another sob-scene," she commented as she went out.

"Where am I? Where am I?" pleaded Carmen, turning from one to another.

Jude reached out and seized her hand tightly. "Pleasant job for me!" she commented ironically, looking at the others. Then, to Carmen:

"You are in a—a hotel," she said abruptly.

"Oh—then—then it was a mistake?" The girl turned her great, yearning eyes upon the woman. Jude shrank under them. "Sit down, and finish your supper," she said harshly, pulling the girl toward the chair.

"No!" replied Carmen loudly. "You must take me to Mr. Reed!"

The maudlin woman down the table chuckled thickly. The negro waitress went quickly out and closed the door. Jude rose, still holding the girl's hand. "Come up stairs with me," she said, leading her away.

"Poor old Jude!" commented one of the women, when the two had left the room. "She's about all in. This sort of business is getting her nerve. But she's housekeeper, and that's part of her job. And—the poor little kid! But ain't she a beauty!"

Jude took the girl into her own room and locked the door. Then she sank wearily into a chair. "God!" she cried, "I'm sick of this—sick of the whole thing!"

Carmen went quickly to her. "Don't!" she said. "Don't! It was all a mistake, and we can go."

"Go!" echoed the woman bitterly. "Where—and how?"

"Why, you said this was a hotel—"

"Hotel! God, it's hell! And you are in forever!"

Carmen gazed at the excited woman with a puzzled expression on her face.

"Now listen," said Jude, bracing herself, "I've got something to tell you. You have been—good God! I can't—I can't! For God's sake, child, don't look at me that way! Who are you? Where do you come from?"

"I told you," replied Carmen quietly.

"Your face looks as if you had come down from the sky. But if you did, and if you believe in a God, you had better pray to Him now!"

"Why—I am not afraid. God is everywhere—right here. I was afraid—a little—at first. But not now. When we stop and just know that we love everybody, and that everybody really loves us, why, we can't be afraid any more, can we?"

The woman looked up at the child in blank amazement. Love! That warped, twisted word conveyed no meaning to her. And God—it was only a convenient execrative. But—what was it that looked out from that strange girl's eyes? What was it that held her fascinated there? What was emerging from those unfathomable depths, twining itself about her withered heart and expanding her black, shrunken soul? Whence came that beautiful, white life that she was going to blast? And could she, after all? Then what stayed her now?

"Look here," she cried sharply, "tell me again all about yourself, and about your friends and family down south, and what it was that the Madam said to you! And be quick!"

Carmen sat down at her feet, and taking her hand, went again over the story. As the child talked, the woman's hard eyes widened, and now and then a big tear rolled down the painted cheek. Her thought began to stray back, far back, along the wreck-strewn path over which she herself had come. At last in the dim haze she saw again the little New England farm, and her father, stern, but honest and respected, trudging behind the plow. In the cottage she saw her white-haired mother, every lineament bespeaking her Puritan origin, hovering over her little household like a benediction. Then night fell, swiftly as the eagle swoops down upon its prey, and she awoke from a terrible dream, stained, abandoned, lost—and seared with a foul oath to drag down to her own level every innocent girl upon whom her hands might thereafter fall!

"And I have just had to know," Carmen concluded, "every minute since I left Simiti, that God was everywhere, and that He would not let any harm come to me. But when we really know that, why, the way always opens. For that's prayer, right prayer; the kind that Jesus taught."

The woman sat staring at the girl, an expression of utter blankness upon her pallid face. Prayer! Oh, yes, she had been taught to pray. Well she remembered, though the memory now cut like a knife, how she knelt at her beautiful mother's knee and asked the good Father to bless and protect them all, even to the beloved doll that she hugged to her little bosom. But God had never heard her petitions, innocent though she was. And He had let her fall, even with a prayer on her lips, into the black pit!

A loud sound of male voices and a stamping of feet rose from below. The woman sprang to the door and stood listening. "It's the boys from the college!" she cried in a hoarse whisper.

She turned and stood hesitant for a moment, as if striving to formulate a plan. A look of fierce determination came into her face. She went to the bureau and took from the drawers several articles, which she hastily thrust into the pocket of her dress.

"Now," she said, turning to Carmen and speaking in a low, strained voice, "you do just as I say. Bring your bundle. And for God's sake don't speak!"

Leaving the light burning, she stepped quickly out with Carmen and locked the door after her. Then, bidding the girl wait, she slipped softly down the hall and locked the door of the room to which the girl had first been taken. Both keys she dropped into her pocket. "Now follow me," she said.

Laughter and music floated up from below, mingled with the clink of glasses. The air was heavy with perfume and tobacco smoke. A door near them opened, and a sound of voices issued. The woman pulled Carmen into a closet until the hall was again quiet. Then she hurried on to another door which she entered, dragging the girl with her. Again she locked the door after her. Groping through the darkness, she reached a window, across which stood a hinged iron grating, secured with a padlock. The woman fumbled among her keys and unfastened this. Swinging it wide, and opening the window beyond, she bade the girl precede her cautiously.

"It's a fire-escape," she explained briefly. She reached through the window grating and fastened the padlock; then closed the window; and quickly descended with the girl to the ground below.

Pausing a moment to get her breath, she seized Carmen's hand and crept swiftly around the big house and into a dark alley. There she stopped to throw over her shoulders a light shawl which she had taken from the bureau. Then she hurried on.

Their course lay through the muddy alley for several blocks. When they emerged they were in a dimly lighted cross street. The air was chill, and the thinly clad woman shivered. Carmen, fresh from the tropics, felt the contrast keenly. A few moments' rapid walking down the street brought them to a large building of yellow brick, surrounded by a high board fence. The woman unfastened the gate and hurried up to the door, over which, by the feeble light of the street lamp, Carmen read, "The Little Sisters of the Poor."

A black-robed woman admitted them and went to summon the Sister Superior. Carmen marveled at her strange attire. A moment later they were silently ushered into an adjoining room, where a tall woman, similarly dressed, awaited them.

"Sister," said Jude excitedly, "here's a little kid—you got to care for her until she finds her friends!"

The Sister Superior instantly divined the status of the woman. "Let the child wait here a moment," she said, "and you come with me and tell your story. It would be better that she should not hear."

In a little while they appeared again. Carmen was drowsing in her chair.

"She's chock full of religion," the woman was saying.

"But you," the Sister replied, "what will you do? Go back?"

"God, no!" cried the woman. "They would murder me!"

"Then you will stay here until—"

"No, no! I have friends—others like myself—I will go to them. I—I couldn't stay here—with her," nodding toward the girl. "But—you will take care of her?"

"Surely," returned the Sister in a calm voice.

Jude looked at Carmen for a moment. She made as if she would speak. Then she turned abruptly and went swiftly out into the chill night.

"Come," said the Sister to Carmen, extending a hand. "Poor little thing!" she murmured as they mounted the stairs. "Poor little thing!"



CHAPTER 2

Carmen was astir next morning long before the rising-bell sounded its shrill summons through the long corridors. When she opened her eyes she gazed at the ceiling above in perplexity. She still seemed to feel the tossing motion of the boat, and half believed the bell to be the call to the table, where she should again hear the cheery voice of Harris and meet the tolerant smile of Mrs. Reed. Then a rush of memories swept her, and her heart went down in the flood. She was alone in a great foreign city! She turned her face to the pillow, and for a moment a sob shook her. Then she reached under the pillow and drew out the little Bible, which she had taken from her bundle and placed there when the Sister left her the night before. The book fell open to Isaiah, and she read aloud:

"I the Lord have called thee in righteousness, and will hold thine hand, and will keep thee, and give thee for a covenant of the people, for a light of the Gentiles."

She snapped the book shut and quickly rose. "That means me," she said firmly. "Padre Jose said I had a message for the world; and now I am to tell it to these people up here. God has called me in righteousness. That means, He has called me to do right thinking. And I am to tell these people how to think right. They don't know as yet."

Suddenly her thought reverted to Cartagena, and to the sturdy little lad who had so proudly claimed the name of Rincon. For a moment she stood still. Then she burst into tears and threw herself back upon the bed.

But she did not lie there long. "I must think only God's thoughts," she said, struggling to her feet and checking her grief. "If it is right for the little boy to be his son, then I must want it to be so. I must want only the right—I have got to want it! And if it is not right now, then God will make it so. It is all in His hands, and I must not think of it any more, unless I think right thoughts."

She dressed herself quickly, but did not put on the shoes. "I simply can not wear these things," she mourned, looking at them dubiously; "and I do not believe the woman will make me. I wonder why the other woman called her Sister. Why did she wear that ugly black bonnet? And why was I hurried away from that hotel? It was so much pleasanter there, so bright and warm; and here it is so cold." She shivered as she buttoned her thin dress. "But," she continued, "I have got to go out now and find Mr. Reed and Mr. Harris—I have just got to find them—and to-day! But, oh, this city is so much larger than Simiti!"

She shook her head in perplexity as she put the Bible back again in the bundle, where lay the title papers to La Libertad and her mother's little locket, which Rosendo had given her that last morning in Simiti. The latter she drew out and regarded wistfully for some moments. "I haven't any father or mother but God," she murmured. "But He is both father and mother to me now." With a little sigh she tied up the bundle again. Holding it in one hand and carrying the much despised shoes in the other, she left the cheerless room and started down the long, cold hall.

When she reached the stairway leading to the floor below she stopped abruptly. "Anita's babe!" she exclaimed half-aloud. "I have been thinking only of myself. It is not blind! It sees! It sees as God sees! What is it that the Bible says?—'And I will bring them by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight.' I must know that—always! And Padre Jose said he would remember it, too."

Again she choked back the tears which surged up at the remembrance of the priest, and, bracing herself, hastily descended the stairs, murmuring at every step, "God is everywhere—right here!"

At the far end of the lower hall she saw, through an open door, a number of elderly people sitting at long tables. Toward them she made her way. When she reached the door, she stopped and peered curiously within. A murmur of astonishment rose from the inmates when they caught sight of the quaint object in the doorway, standing uncertainly, with her shoes in one hand, the awkwardly tied bundle in the other, and garbed in the chaotic attire so hastily procured for her in Cartagena.

A Sister came quickly forward and, taking the girl's hand, led her into a smaller adjoining room, where sat the Sister Superior at breakfast. The latter greeted the child gently and bade her be seated at the table. Carmen dropped into a chair and sat staring in naive wonder.

"Well," began the Sister at length, "eat your breakfast quickly. This is Sunday, you know, and Mass will be said in the chapel in half an hour. You look frightened. I don't wonder. But you are with friends here, little girl. What is your name?"

Carmen quickly recovered her spirits, and her nimble tongue its wonted flexibility. Without further invitation or preface she entered at once upon a lively description of her wonderful journey through the jungle, the subsequent ocean voyage, and the mishap at the pier, and concluded with the cryptical remark: "And, you know, Senora, it is all just as Padre Jose said, only a series of states of consciousness, after all!"

The Sister stared blankly at the beaming child. What manner of being was this that had been so strangely wafted into these sacred precincts on the night breeze! The abandoned woman who had brought her there, the Sister remembered, had dropped an equally cryptical remark—"She's chock full of religion."

But gratitude quickly mastered her wonder, and the woman, pondering the child's dramatic recital, murmured a sincere, "The Virgin be praised!"

"Oh," said Carmen, looking up quickly as she caught the words, "you people up here talk just like those in Simiti. But Padre Jose said you didn't know, either. You ought to, though, for you have had so many more ad—advantages than we have. Senora, there are many big, clumsy words in the English language, aren't there? But I love it just the same. So did Padre Jose. We used to speak it all the time during the last years we were together. He said it seemed easier to talk about God in that language than in any other. Do you find it so, Senora?"

"What do you mean, child?" asked the puzzled Sister. "And who is this Jose that you talk so much about?"

"He—taught me—in Simiti. He is the priest there."

"Well," replied the Sister warmly, "he seems to have taught you queer things!"

"Oh, no!" returned Carmen quickly, "he just taught me the truth. He didn't tell me about the queer things in the world, for he said they were not real."

Again the Sister stared at the girl in dumb amazement. But the child's thought had strayed to other topics. "Isn't it cold up here!" she exclaimed, shivering and drawing her dress about her. "I guess I'll have to put on these shoes to keep my feet warm."

"Certainly, child, put them on!" exclaimed the Sister. "Didn't you wear shoes in your country?"

"No," replied Carmen, tugging and straining at the shoes; "I didn't wear much of anything, it was so warm. Oh, it is beautiful down there, Senora, so beautiful and warm in Simiti!" She sighed, and her eyes filled with tears. But she brushed them away and smiled bravely up at the Sister. "I've come here because it is right," she said with a firm nod of her head. "Padre Jose said I had a message for you. He said you didn't know much about God up here. Why, I don't know much of anything else!" She laughed a happy little laugh as she said this. Then she went on briskly:

"You know, Senora, Padre Jose isn't really a priest. But he said he had to stay in the Church in order to teach me. I never could understand why. I am sure he just thought wrong about it. But, anyway, he will not have to be a priest any more, now that I have gone, will he? You know, Don Jorge said priests were a bad lot; but that isn't so, for there are many good priests, aren't there? Yes, there are. Only, they don't understand, either. Why, Senora," she exclaimed, suddenly remembering the Sister's previous injunction, "is this a church? You said there would be Mass in the chapel—"

"No," replied the Sister, still studying the girl attentively, while her manner became more severe; "this is a home for old people, a charitable institution."

"Oh," replied Carmen, with a very vague idea of what that meant. "Well," her face alight and her eyes dancing, "I don't belong here then, do I? I am never going to be old," she meditated. "Why, God never grows old! And we are His children, you know. The Bible says we are made in His image and likeness. Well, if that is so, how can we ever grow old? Just think of God hobbling around in heaven with a cane and saying: 'Well, I'm getting old now! I'll soon be dying!' Isn't that awful! We wouldn't grow old and die if it wasn't for our wrong way of thinking, would we? When we think His thoughts, why, we will be like Him. But not until then. Padre Jose says this, and he knows it is true—only, he seems to have a hard time proving it. But, Senora, we have all got to prove it, some time, every one of us. And then there will not be any places like this for old people—people who still believe that two and two are seven, you know. And that's my message."

The woman looked at her blankly; but the girl rambled on. "Padre Jose sometimes talked of the charitable institutions out in the world, and he always said that charity was a crime against the people. And he was right, for that is just the way Jesus looked at it, isn't it? Jesus did not give money to beggars, but he did better, he healed them of the bad state of mind that was making them poor and sick. Why don't the priests do that? Can you heal the sick? Jesus, when he taught, first said a thing, and then he turned right around and proved it. Now do you do that? I try to. I've tried it all my life. And, why, Senora, I've had thousands of proofs!"

The Sister did not reply; and Carmen, stealing a covert glance at her, continued:

"You know, Senora, it is just as wicked to be sick and poor as it is to tell a lie, because being sick and poor is just the ex—the ex-ter-nal-i-zation of our thought; and such thought is not from God; and so to hold such thoughts and to believe them real is to believe in power apart from God. It is having other gods than the one God; and that is breaking the very first Commandment, isn't it? Yes, it is; and you can prove it, just as you can prove the principles in mathematics. Senora, do you know anything about mathematics?"

The astonished woman made an involuntary sign of negation.

"Oh, Senora," cried the enthusiastic girl, "the things that Jesus taught can be proved just as easily as we prove the rules in mathematics! Why not? for they are truth, and all truth can be demonstrated, you know. You know, Senora, God is everywhere—not only in heaven, but right here where we are. Heaven, Padre Jose used to say so often, is only a perfect state of mind; and so it is, isn't it? God, you know, is mind. And when we reflect Him perfectly, why, we will be in heaven. Isn't it simple? But," she went on after catching her breath, "we can't reflect Him as long as we believe evil to be real and powerful. Evil isn't anything. It is just zero, nothing—"

"I've heard that before," interrupted the woman, recovering somewhat from her surprise. "But I think that before you get out of New York you will reverse that idea. There's a pretty fair amount of evil here, and it is quite real, we find."

"But it isn't!" cried Carmen. "If it is real, then God made it. It seems real to you—but that is only because you give it reality in your consciousness. You believe it real, and so it becomes to you."

"Well," said the woman dryly, "on that basis I think the same may be said of good, too."

"No," answered Carmen eagerly, "good is—"

"There," interrupted the Sister coldly, holding up an admonitory hand, "we are not going to discuss the foolish theological notions which that fallen priest put into your poor little head. Finish your breakfast."

The child looked at the woman in mute protest. Jose a fallen priest! Would these people up here so regard him? It was a new thought, and one that she would not accept.

"Senora," she began again, after a brief interval, "Padre Jose is a good man, even the human Padre Jose. And he is trying to solve his problem and know God. And he is trying to know himself, not as other people think they know him, but as God knows him, and as I have always tried to know him. You have no right to judge him—and, anyway, you are not judging him, but only your wrong idea of him. And that," she said softly, "is nothing."

The Sister did not answer. She was beginning to feel the spell of those great brown eyes, that soft, rich voice, and the sparkling expression of innocence, purity, and calm assurance that bubbled from those red lips. And she was losing herself in contemplation of the girl's luxuriant beauty, whose rich profusion her strange, foreign attire could not disguise.

"Senora," said Carmen suddenly, "the people on the boat laughed at my clothes. But I don't think them half as funny as that great black bonnet you are wearing. Why do you wear it? I never saw one until I was brought here."

It was said innocently, and with no thought of offense. But the woman instantly roused from her meditation and assumed an attitude of severe dignity. "Finish your breakfast," she commanded sharply. "And remember after this that children's manners here are not those of your country."

The girl fell quiet under the rebuke, and the meal ended in silence. As they were rising from the table a cheery voice came from the outer room, and presently a priest looked in.

"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 Jose celebrate Mass in the rude little church in Simiti, 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 that that priest was really changing the wafer and wine into flesh and blood? She recalled much that Jose 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 Jose taught you these things?"

"He taught me English, and French, and German. He taught me mathematics. And he taught me all I know of history, and of the world," the girl replied.

"Yes, yes," the priest went on hurriedly; "but these other things, these religious and philosophical notions, who taught you these?"

The Sister drew closer and strained her ears to hear.

The girl looked down as she answered softly, "God."

The priest's head sank upon his breast. He reached out and laid a hand on hers. "I believe you," he said, in a voice scarcely audible. "I believe you—for we do not teach such things."

The girl looked up with luminous eyes. "Then," she said quizzically, "you are not really a priest."

"Father Waite!" The Sister's voice rang sternly through the quiet chapel. The priest started to his feet in confusion. "The dinner-bell will ring in a few minutes," continued the Sister, regarding the man severely.

"Ah, true," he murmured, hastily glancing at the clock. "The time passed so rapidly—a—a—this girl—"

"Leave the girl to me," replied the Sister coldly. "Unless," she added, "you consider her deranged. Coming from that hot country suddenly into this cold climate might—"

"No, no," interrupted the priest hastily; "she seems uncommonly strong mentally. She has some notions that are a—somewhat different from ours—that is—but I will come and have a further talk with her."

He raised his hand in silent benediction, while the Sister bowed her head stiffly. Then, as if loath to take his eyes from the girl, he turned and went slowly out.

"Come," said the woman sharply. Carmen followed her out into the hall and down a flight of steps to the kitchen below.

"Katherine," said the Sister Superior, addressing an elderly, white-haired Sister who seemed to be in charge of the culinary department, "put this girl to work. Let her eat with you and sleep in your room. And see if you can't work some of the foolish notions out of her head."



CHAPTER 3

"Get some o' th' foolish notions out of your head, is it? Och, puir bairn, wid yer swate face an' that hivenly hair, it's welcome ye air to yer notions! But, hist! Ye have talked too brash to the Sister Superior. Ye air that innocent, puir thing! But, mind your tongue, honey. Tell your funny notions to old Katie, an' they'll be safe as the soul of Saint Patrick; but keep mum before the others, honey."

"But, Senora, don't they want to know the truth up here?" There was a note of appeal in the quavering voice.

"Now listen, honey; don't call me sich heathen names. Call me Sister. I'm no Senora, whativer that may be. And as for wantin' to know the truth, God bless ye, honey! th' good Fathers know it all now."

"They don't, Sen—Sister!"

"Well, thin, they don't—an' mebby I'm not so far from agreein' wid ye. But, och, it's dead beat I am, after the Sunday's work! But ye air a right smart little helper, honey—only, ye don't belong in th' kitchen."

"Sen—I mean, Sister—"

"That's better, honey; ye'll get it in time."

"Sister, I've just got to find Mr. Reed! Do you know him?"

"No, honey, it's few I know outside these walls. But ye can put up a bit of a prayer when ye turn in to-night. An' we'd best be makin' for th' bed, too, darlin', for we've a hard day's work to-morrow."

It was Carmen's second night in New York, and as the girl silently followed the puffing old woman up the several long, dark flights of stairs to the little, cheerless room under the eaves, it seemed to her that her brain must fly apart with the pressure of its mental accumulation. The great building in which she was now sheltered, the kitchen, with its marvels of equipment, gas stoves, electric lights, annunciators, and a thousand other equally wonderful appliances which the human mind has developed for its service and comfort, held her fascinated, despite her situation, while she swelled with questions she dared not ask. Notwithstanding the anxiety which she had not wholly suppressed, her curiosity, naive, eager, and insatiable, rose mountain high. Sister Katherine had been kind to her, had received her with open arms, and given her light tasks to perform. And many times during the long afternoon the old woman had relaxed entirely from her assumed brusqueness and stooped to lay a large, red hand gently upon the brown curls, or to imprint a resounding kiss upon the flushed cheek. Now, as night was settling down over the great, roaring city, the woman took the homeless waif into her big heart and wrapped her in a love that, roughly expressed, was yet none the less tender and sincere.

"Ye can ask the Virgin, honey, to send ye to yer frinds," said the woman, as they sat in the gloaming before the window and looked out over the kindling lights of the city.

"What good would that do, Sister?"

"Not much, I guess, honey," answered the woman frankly. "Troth, an' I've asked her fer iverything in my time, from diamonds to a husband, an' she landed me in a convint! But I ain't complainin'."

"You didn't ask in the right way, Sister—"

"Faith, I asked in ivery way I knew how! An' whin I had th' carbuncle on me neck I yelled at her! Sure she may have answered me prayer, fer th' whoop I gave busted the carbuncle, an' I got well. Ye nivir kin tell, honey. An' so I ain't complainin'."

"But, Sis—I can't call you Sister!" pleaded the girl, going to the woman and twining her arms about her neck.

"Och, honey darlin'"—tears started from the old woman's eyes and rolled down her wrinkled cheeks—"honey darlin', call me Katie, just old Katie. Och, Holy Virgin, if I could have had a home, an' a beautiful daughter like you—!" She clasped the girl in her great arms and held her tightly.

"Katie, when you pray you must pray knowing that God has already given you what you need, and that there is nothing that can keep you from seeing it."

The woman wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "An' so, darlin', if I want diamonds I must know that I have 'em, is it that, honey?"

"You dear thing!" murmured Carmen, drawing closer, and laying her soft cheek against the leathery visage of the old woman.

"Say that again, honey—och, say it again! It's words, darlin', that's nivir been said to old Katie!"

"Why, hasn't any one ever been kind to you?"

"Kind! Och, ivirybody's kind to me, honey! But nobody has ivir loved me—that way. The good Lord made me a fright, honey—ain't ye noticed? I've a face like an owl. An' they told me from th' cradle up I'd nivir land a man. An' I didn't, honey; they all ran from me—an' so I become a bride o' th' Church. But I ain't complainin'."

"But, Katie, the face is nothing. Why, your heart is as big—as big as the whole world! I hadn't been with you an hour before I knew that. And, Katie dear, I love you."

"Och, darlin'," murmured the woman, "sure th' Virgin be praised fer sendin' ye to me, a lonely old woman!"

"It was not the Virgin, Katie, but God who brought me here," said the girl gently, as she caressed the old Sister's cheek.

"It's all one, honey; the Virgin's th' Mother o' God."

"Why, Katie! You don't know what you are saying!"

"Troth, child, she has th' same power as God! Don't we pray to her, an' she prays to th' good God to save us? Don't she have influence with Him?"

"No, Katie, no. There is no person or thing that persuades God to be good to His children. There is nothing that influences Him. He is infinite—infinite mind, Katie, and infinite good. Oh, Katie, what awful things are taught in this world as truth! How little we know of the great God! And yet how much people pretend they know about Him! But if they only knew—really knew, as Jesus did—why, Katie, there wouldn't be an old person, or a sick or unhappy one in the whole world! Katie," after a little pause, "I know. And I'm going to tell them."

The old Sister drew the child closer. "Air these more o' yer funny notions, darlin'?"

"I suppose they are what the world thinks funny, Katie," answered the girl.

"An' I don't wonder! We are not taught such things, honey. But then, th' world moves, girlie—even old Katie sees that. Only, the Church don't move with it. An' old Katie can see that, too. An' so, I'm thinkin', does Father Waite."

"I know he does, Katie."

"Faith, an' how do ye know it, child?"

"He talked with me—a long time, this morning. He said God had taught me what I know."

"Aye, is it so? Thin me own suspicions air right; he's out o' tune! Did ye say, girlie dear, that he didn't scold ye fer yer funny notions?"

"No, Katie, he said they were right."

"Did he so! Thin, lassie dear, things is goin' to happen. An' he's a good man—troth, they make no better in this world!"

The old Sister lapsed into thought. Carmen looked out wonderingly over the city. She yearned to know what it held for her.

"Katie," she said at length, bending again over the woman, "will you help me find Mr. Reed?"

"Och, lassie—what's your name again?"

"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."

"And now you will help me?"

"Help you, lassie! God bless ye, yes! But—unless it's wi' Father Waite, I don't know what I can do. Ye air in bad with th' Sister Superior fer yer talk at th' breakfast table. Ye're a fresh little heathen, honey. An' she's suspicious of Father Waite, too. We all air. An' he th' best man on airth! But his doctrine ain't just sound, sweatheart. Hivins, doctrine! It means more'n a good heart! There, honey, lave it to me. But it's got to be done quick, or th' Sister Superior'll have ye in an orphan asylum, where ye'll stay till ye air soused in th' doctrine! I can manage to get word to Father Waite to-morrow, airly. Jinny will run over fer me. A bit of a word wi' him'll fix it, lassie dear. An' now, honey swate, off with them funny clothes and plump into bed. Saints above! it's all but marnin' now!"

A few minutes later the woman turned to the girl who lay so quiet at her side.

"Honey," she whispered, "was ye tellin' me awhile back that ye knew the right way to pray?"

"Yes, Katie dear," the child murmured.

"Thin do you pray, lass, an' I'll not trouble the Virgin this night."

* * * * *

"Well, Father, what do you think now?" The Sister Superior looked up aggressively, as Father Waite slowly entered the room. His head was bowed, and there was a look of deep earnestness upon his face.

"I have talked with her again—an hour, or more," he said reflectively. "She is a—a remarkable girl, in many ways." He stopped, uncertain how to proceed.

The Sister eyed him keenly. "She attracts and repels me, both," she said. "At times she seems positively uncanny. And she appears to be suffering from religious dementia. Do you not think so?"

It was a compromising question, and the priest weighed his words carefully before replying. "She does—seem to—to have rather—a—rather unusual—religious views," said he slowly.

"Would it not be well to have Dr. Sullivan examine her?"

"To what end?"

"That we may know what to do with her. If she is mentally unsound she must not be sent to the orphanage."

"She should be taken—a—I mean, we should try to locate her friends. I have already searched the city directory; but, though there are many Reeds, there are none listed with the initials she gave me as his. I had thought," he continued hesitatingly, "I had thought of putting her in charge of the Young Women's Christian Association—"

"Father Waite!" The Sister Superior rose and drew herself up to her full height. "Do you mean to say that you have contemplated delivering her into the hands of heretics?" she demanded coldly, her tall figure instinct with the mortal pride of religious superiority.

"Why, Sister," returned the priest with embarrassment, "would it not be wise to place her among those whose views harmonize more closely with hers than ours do?"

"Father! I am surprised—!"

"But—she is not a Catholic!" urged the man, with a gesture of impatience. "And she will never be one. The combined weight of all the centuries of church authority could not make her one—never! I must take her to those with whom she rightfully belongs."

The Sister Superior's eyes narrowed and glittered, and her face grew dark. "Never!" she said in a low tone. "I would rather see her dead! Father Waite, you exceed your authority! I am in charge here, and I shall report this case to the Bishop!"

The priest stood hesitant for a moment. The futility of his case seemed to impress him. Taking up his hat, he bowed without speaking and went out. The Sister Superior stepped to the telephone. Outside the door the man listened until he caught the number she called. His face grew dark and angry, and his hands clenched a she strode down the hall.

On the stairs that led up from the kitchen stood Sister Katherine.

"Hist! Father!"

He stopped and turned to the woman. Her finger went up to her lips.

"Wait on th' corner—behind the church! The lassie will meet you there!"

Before he could reply the woman had plunged again into the dark stairway. Stopping at a small closet below, she took out a bundle. Then she hurried to the kitchen and summoned Carmen, who was sitting at a table peeling potatoes.

"Troth, lazy lass," she commanded sharply, "do you take the bucket and mop and begin on the front steps. And mind that ye don't bring me heavy hand down on ye! Och, lassie darlin'," she added, when she had drawn the startled girl out of hearing of the others, "give yer old Katie a kiss, and then be off! Troth, it breaks me heart to see ye go—but 'twould break yours to stay! Go, lassie darlin', an' don't fergit old Katie! Here," thrusting the girl's bundle and a dollar bill into her hands, "an' God bless ye, lass! Ye've won me, heart an' soul! Ye'll find a frind at th' nixt corner!" pointing up the street. She strained the girl again to her breast, then opened the door and hastily thrust her out into the street.

For a moment Carmen stood dazed by the suddenness of it all. She looked up confusedly at the great, yellow building from which she had been ejected. There was no visible sign of life. Then, grasping her bundle and the dollar bill, she hurried out through the gate and started up the street.

Around the corner stood Father Waite. The man's face was furrowed, and his body trembled. The girl went up to him with a glad smile. The priest looked up, and muttered something incoherent under his breath a she took her hand.

"Where are we going, Padre?" she asked.

He drew some loose change from his pocket, and hailed an approaching street car.

"To police headquarters," he replied, "to ask them to help us find your friends."



CHAPTER 4

From the mysterious wastes which lie far out on the ocean, the fog was again creeping stealthily across the bay and into the throbbing arteries of the great city. Through half-opened doors and windows it rolled like smoke, and piled like drifted snow against the mountains of brick and stone. Caught for a moment on a transient breeze, it swirled around a towering pile on lower Broadway, and eddied up to the windows of the Ketchim Realty Company, where it sifted through the chinks in the loose frames and settled like a pall over the dingy rooms within.

To Philip O. Ketchim, junior member of the firm, it seemed a fitting external expression of the heavy gloom within his soul. Crumpled into the chair at the broad table in his private office, with his long, thin legs stretched out before him, his hands crammed into the pockets of his trousers, and his bullet-shaped head sunk on his flat chest, until it seemed as if the hooked nose which graced his hawk-like visage must be penetrating his breast-bone, the man was the embodiment of utter dejection. On the littered table, where he had just tossed it, lay the report of Reed and Harris on the pseudo-mineral properties of the Molino Company—the "near-mines" in the rocky canon of the far-off Boque. Near it lay the current number of a Presbyterian review, wherein the merits of this now moribund project were advertised in terms whose glitter had attracted swarms of eager, trusting investors.

The firm name of Ketchim Realty Company was something of a misnomer. The company itself was an experiment, whose end had not justified its inception. It had been launched a few years previously by Douglass Ketchim to provide business careers for his two sons, James and Philip. The old gentleman, still hale and vigorous, was one of those sturdy Englishmen who had caught the infection of '49 and abruptly severed the ties which bound them to their Kentish homes for the allurements of the newly discovered El Dorado of western America. Across the death-haunted Isthmus of Panama and up the inhospitable Pacific coast the indomitable spirit of the young adventurer drove him, until he reached the golden sands of California. There he toiled for many years, until Fortune at length smiled upon his quenchless efforts. Then he tossed aside his rough tools and set out for the less constricted fields of the East.

He invested his money wisely, and in the course of years turned it several times. He became a banker. He aspired to the hand of a sister of a railway president, and won it. He educated his sons in the best colleges of the East, and then sent them to Europe on their honeymoons. And finally, when the burden of years began to press noticeably, and the game became less attractive, he retired from the field of business, cleared off his indebtedness, organized the Ketchim Realty Company, put its affairs on the best possible basis, and then committed the unpardonable folly of turning it over to the unrestricted management of his two sons.

The result was chaos. At the expiration of a year the old gentleman hurried back into the harness to save the remnant of his fortune, only to find it inextricably tied up in lands of dubious value and questionable promotional schemes. The untangling of the real estate he immediately took into his own hands. The schemes he left to his sons.

A word in passing regarding these sons, for they typify a form of parasitical growth, of the fungus variety, which in these days has battened and waxed noxious on the great stalk of legitimate commercial enterprise. They were as dissimilar, and each as unlike his father, as is possible among members of the same family. Both sought, with diligent consecration, the same goal, money; but employed wholly different means to gain that end. James, the elder, was a man of ready wit, a nimble tongue, and a manner which, on occasions when he could think of any one but himself, was affable and gracious. He was a scoffer of religion, an open foe of business scruple, and the avowed champion of every sort of artifice and device employed in ancient, mediaeval, or modern finance to further his own selfish desires, in the minimum of time, and at whatever cost to his fellow-man. In his cups he was a witty, though arrogant, braggart. In his home he was petulant and childish. Of real business acumen and constructive wisdom, he had none. He would hew his way to wealth, if need be, openly defiant of God, man, or the devil. Or he would work in subtler ways, through deceit, jugglery, or veiled bribe. But he generally wore his heart on his sleeve; and those who perforce had business relations with him soon discovered that, though utterly unscrupulous, his character was continuously revealed through his small conceit, which caused him so to work as to be seen of men and gain their cheap plaudits for his sharp, mendacious practices.

Philip retained a degree of his father's confidence—which James wholly lacked—and he spared himself no pains to cultivate it. Though far less ready of wit than his stubby, bombastic brother, he was a tenacious plodder, and was for this reason much more likely ultimately to achieve his sordid purposes. His energy was tireless, and he never admitted defeat. He never worked openly; he never appeared to have a decided line of conduct; and no one could ever say what particular course he intended to pursue. Apparently, he was a man of exemplary habits; and his mild boast that he knew not the taste of tobacco or liquor could not be refuted. He was an elder in the Presbyterian church in the little suburb where he lived, and superintendent of its Sunday school. His prayers were beautiful expressions of reverent piety; and his conversation, at all times chaste and modest, announced him a man of more than ordinary purity of thought and motive. While it is true that no one could recall any pious deed, any charitable act, or any conduct based on motives of self-abnegation and brotherly love performed by him, yet no one could ever point to a single coarse or mean action emanating from the man. If there was discord in company affairs, the wanton James always bore the onus. And because of this, relations between the brothers gradually assumed a condition of strain, until at length James openly and angrily denounced Philip as a hypocrite, and refused longer to work with him. Thereupon the milder Philip offered the other cheek and installed a mediator, in the person of one Rawlins, a sickly, emaciated, bearded, but loyal Hermes, who thenceforth performed the multifold functions of pacificator, go-between, human telephone, and bearer of messages, documents, and what-not from one to the other for a nominal wage and the crumbs that dropped from the promoter's table.

The fog and the gloom thickened, and Ketchim sat deeply immersed in both. He was still shaking from the fright which he had received that morning. On opening the door as he was about to leave his house to take the train to the city, he had confronted two bulky policemen. With a muffled shriek he had slammed the door in their astonished faces and darted back into the house, his heart in his throat and hammering madly. How could he know that they were only selling tickets to a Policemen's Ball? Then he had crept to the window and, concealed in the folds of the curtain, had watched them go down the street, laughing and turning often to glance back at the house that held such a queer-mannered inmate.

Rousing himself from the gloomy revery into which he had lapsed, Ketchim switched on the light and took up again the report of Reed and Harris. Sullenly he turned its pages, while the sallow skin on his low forehead wrinkled, and his bird-like face drew into ugly contortions.

"Fools!" he muttered. "Didn't they see that clause in their contract, providing an additional fifty thousand in stock for them in case they made a favorable report?"

A light tap at the door, and a low cough, preceded the noiseless entrance of the meek-souled Rawlins.

"A—a—this is the list which Reverend Jurges sent us—names and addresses of his congregation. I've mailed them all descriptive matter; and I wrote Mr. Jurges that the price of his stock would be five dollars, but that we couldn't sell to his congregation for less than seven. That's right, isn't it? I told him Molino stock would go up to par next month. That's what you said, I believe."

"How much stock did Jurges say he'd take?" demanded Ketchim, without looking up.

"Why, he said he could only get together two thousand dollars at present, but that later he would have some endowment insurance falling due—"

"How soon?"

"About a year, I think he said."

"Well, he ought to be able to borrow on that. Did you write him so?"

"No—but I can."

"Do so—but only hint at it. And tell him to send his check at once for the stock he has agreed to take."

"Why, he sent that some days ago. I thought you—"

"He did?" cried Ketchim, his interest now fully aroused. "Well, where is it?"

"Er—your brother James received the letter, and I believe he put the check in his pocket."

Ketchim gave vent to a snort of rage. "You tell James," he cried, pounding the desk with his fist, "that as president and treasurer of the Molino Company I demand that check!"

"Yes, sir—and—"

"Well?"

"Mr. Cass 'phoned before you got down this morning. He said the bank refused to extend the time on your note."

Ketchim sank back limply into his chair, and his face became ashen.

"And here is the mail," pursued the gentle Hermes, handing him a bundle of letters.

Ketchim roused himself with an effort. His eyes flashed angrily. "Do you know whether James has been selling any of his own Molino stock?" he asked.

"I—I believe he has, sir—a little."

"Humph! And how much?"

"He sold some two hundred shares yesterday—I believe; to a Miss Leveridge."

"Leveridge? Who's she? What did he get for it?"

"Why, the Leveridge children—grown men and women now—have just sold their farm down state; and Mr. James saw the sale announced in the papers. So he got in touch with Miss Alvina Leveridge. I believe he sent Houghton down there; and he closed a deal. Mr. James got eight dollars a share, I believe."

"You believe! You know, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," meekly.

Ketchim gulped down his wrath, and continued:

"How much did the Leveridges get for their farm? And why didn't you inform me of the sale?" he demanded, fixing the humble Rawlins with a cold eye.

"A—a—twenty-five thousand dollars, sir, I believe. And I didn't see the notice until—"

"As usual, James saw it first! An excellent scout you are! Twenty-five thousand dollars! How many acres?"

"A hundred and eighty, I believe."

Ketchim reflected. "James is still dickering with Miss Leveridge, I suppose?"

"I believe so, sir."

"Nezlett got back last night, didn't he? Very well, call him up and tell him to get ready to go at once to—wherever the Leveridges live. And—I want to see him right away!"

He abruptly dismissed the factotum and turned to his mail. As his glance fell upon the pile he gasped. Then he quickly drew out a letter and tore it open. His thin lips moved rapidly as his eyes roved over the paper. He laid the letter down and looked wildly about. Then he took it up again and read aloud the closing words:

"—and, having bought somewhat heavily of Molino stock, and believing that your representations were made with intent to deceive, I shall, unless immediate reparation or satisfactory explanation is made, take such steps as my counsel may advise.

"Yours, etc., "J. WILTON AMES."

Congealing with fear, Ketchim took his stock memorandum from a drawer and consulted it. "He put in ten thousand, cash," he murmured, closing the book and replacing it. "And I always wondered why, for he doesn't go into things that he can't control. There's where I was a fool! He shouldn't have been sold a dollar's worth! He knows we can't return the money; and now he's tightening the screws! He has something up his sleeve; and we've fallen for it!"

He settled back in his chair and groaned aloud. "Why did he buy? Did he think he'd reach Uncle Ted through us? By Jove! that's it! For a year or more he's wanted to oust Uncle from the C. & R., and now he thinks by threatening the family with disgrace, and us fellows with the pen, he can do it! What fools we've been! Oh, if I ever get out of this I'll steer clear of these deals in the future!" It was his stock resolution, which had never borne fruit.

The door opened slightly, and the noiseless Rawlins timidly announced the arrival of Reed and Harris.

"Show them in at once!" cried Ketchim, jumping up and hastily passing his hands over his hair and face. Then, advancing with a wan smile, he courteously greeted the callers.

"Well, fellows," he began, waving them to seats, "it looks a little bad for Molino, doesn't it? I've just been reading your report—although of course you told me over the 'phone yesterday that there was no hope. But," he continued gravely, and his face grew serious, "I'm glad, very glad, of one thing, and that is that there are men in the world to-day who are above temptation."

"Which means—?" queried Harris.

"Why," continued Ketchim, smiling pallidly, "the little joker that James inserted in the contract, about your getting fifty thousand in the event of a favorable report. I told him it didn't look well—but he said it would test you. He would be funny, though, no matter how serious the business. But you showed that you were men."

Harris snickered; but Reed turned the conversation at once. "We have been studying how we could help you pull the thing out of the fire. Suppose you give us," he suggested, "a little of Molino's history. Then perhaps something may occur to us."

"There isn't much to tell," replied Ketchim gloomily. "The mines were located by a man named Lakes, at one time acting-Consul at Cartagena. He is half Colombian, I believe. He came up to New York and interested Bryan, Westler, and some others, and they asked us to act as fiscal agents."

"But you never had title to the property," said Reed.

"Certainly we have the title! Why do you say that?"

"Because, on our way down the Magdalena river we made the acquaintance of a certain Captain Pinal, of the Colombian army. When he learned that we were mining men he told us he had a string of rich properties that he would like to sell. I inquired their location, and he said they lay along the Boque river. And I learned that he had clear title to the property, too—Molino's mines. Now you have sold some three or four hundred thousand dollars' worth of stock on alleged mines to which you never had even the shadow of a claim!"

"But—" murmured Ketchim weakly, "we thought we had. We acted in good faith—we took Mr. Lakes's word—and we showed our confidence and sincerity by purchasing machinery to operate—"

"Oh, the machinery went down there, all right!" ejaculated Harris with a laugh. "I judge it was designed to manufacture barrel staves, rather than to extract gold! Lakes had it shipped to Cartagena; rented part of an old woman's house; dumped the machinery in there; and now she's wild. Can't get her pay from you for storing the machinery; and can't sell the stuff, nor move it. So there she sits, under some six or eight tons of iron junk, waiting for the Lord to perform a miracle!"

Ketchim smiled feebly. "It's too bad!" he murmured. "But Molino has no funds—"

"You are still selling stock, aren't you?" demanded Reed.

"Oh, no!" quickly returned Ketchim. "We would not sell any more stock until we received your report—and not then, unless the report were favorable. That would not have been right!"

Reed eyed him narrowly. But the image of truth sat enthroned upon Ketchim's sharp features.

"It is unfortunate, boys," the promoter continued dejectedly. "But I care nothing for my own losses; it's the poor stockholders I am thinking about. I would do anything to relieve them. I've prayed to be led to do right. What would you suggest?"

"I suggest," blurted out Harris, "that, having already relieved them considerably, you'll soon be wearing a striped suit!"

The last trace of color faded from Ketchim's face, but the sickly smile remained. "I'd wear it, willingly, if by so doing I could help these poor people," he mournfully replied.

"Well," pursued Harris, "it'll help some when they learn that you're in one."

"Boys," said Ketchim suddenly, quite disregarding the insinuation, "to-morrow is Sunday, and I want you both out to dinner with me, and we will talk this all over. Then in the afternoon I want you to come over and see my little Sunday school. Fellows," he continued gravely, "I've prayed for you and for your success every day since you left. And my faith in my Saviour is too great to be shattered now by your adverse report. He certainly will show us a way out; and I can trust him and wait."

Reed and Harris looked at him and then at each other with puzzled expressions on their faces. The man continued earnestly:

"Colombia is a rich and undeveloped country, you have said. There must be other mineral properties available there. Did you see none on your travels? Or could we not organize an exploration party to search for mines?"

"Who'd furnish the wherewithal?" asked Harris bluntly.

"Oh, that could be arranged."

"Will your sheep stand for further shearing?" queried the grinning Harris.

"Fellows," said Ketchim, brightening and drawing his chair closer, "you've got something—I know it! You've got something to suggest that will save the Molino stockholders!"

"But not yourself, eh?" taunted Harris.

"I shall sacrifice myself," answered Ketchim deprecatingly. His manner had now become animated, and he leaned expectantly toward them.

Reed and Harris again looked questioningly at each other. "I guess we might as well," said Reed in a low voice. "It is bound to come out, anyway."

"Sure," returned Harris; "drive ahead."

"Mr. Ketchim," began Reed, turning to the eager, fidgeting man, "when I came to New York a year ago, looking for a business opening, my friend and former classmate in the University, Mr. Cass, put me in touch with you. At that time you were booming the Molino company hard, and, I have no doubt, thought you really had something down in Colombia. But when you offered to lease me a portion of your properties there, I laughed at you. And, in the course of time, I succeeded in convincing you that you knew nothing whatsoever about the properties on which you were selling so much stock. Then, after months of parley, from an offer to permit me to go down to Colombia at my own expense to examine Molino's mines, to ascertain whether or not I wished to operate a part of them on a royalty basis, you adopted my own view, namely, that the time had come for you to know whether the company possessed anything of value or not. And so you sent my associate, Mr. Harris, and myself down there to examine and report on Molino's so-called mines. And you gave us each a block of stock as part compensation. We found the mines barren. And now you have got to face a body of stockholders from whom you have lured thousands of dollars by your misrepresentations. From talks with your salesmen, I am convinced that this body of stockholders is made up chiefly of widows and indigent clergymen."

"Which of my salesmen told you that?" interrupted Ketchim heatedly.

"Let us waive that," replied Reed calmly. "The fact is, you are in a hard way just at present, is it not so?"

"Fellows," said Ketchim, with an air of penitent humility, "the officers and stockholders of the Molino Company have been grossly deceived and unfortunately—"

"All right," interrupted Reed, "we'll pass that. But Harris and I have played square with you. And we are going to continue to do so, and to offer you a possible opportunity to do something for your poor stockholders, and incidentally for yourself and us. The fact is, we do know of another property down there, but we haven't the title—"

"That makes no difference!" interrupted Ketchim. "I mean, it can be acquired—" striving to restrain his eagerness.

"That's just the question," replied Reed. "The title is at present vested in a young Colombian girl, who, unfortunately, is lost. This girl came up to the States with us—"

"Ha!" exclaimed Ketchim, unable longer to hold himself. "Then you broke your contract, for that stipulated that whatever you might acquire there should belong to me! I engaged your services, remember!"

"I believe," put in Harris dryly, "we were employed by the Molino company."

"But my mother advanced the funds to send you down there!" cried Ketchim.

"How about the poor stockholders?" queried Harris, with an insinuating grin.

"I'm speaking for the stockholders, of course," said Ketchim, subsiding. "But, proceed, please."

"There is no likelihood that this poor girl will ever be heard of again," continued Reed. "Nor is it likely that the title papers, which she has with her, will be of any use to those into whose hands she has fallen. Her old foster-father held the title to this mine, but transferred it to the girl, stipulating that she and I should divide a large interest in the stock of a company formed to develop and operate it. For my share, I agreed to bring the young girl to the States and place her in a school, at my own expense." He went on to relate the manner in which Carmen had been lost, and then continued: "Of course, the title to this mine is registered in Cartagena, and in the girl's name, as the old man gave me power to have that change made. But, now that she is gone, the property naturally reverts to him."

"We will relocate it!" declared Ketchim impatiently.

"No, that wouldn't be right to the old man," returned Reed. "But, it might be that the property could now be secured from him. He is old and penniless, and without any further interest in life. It is a bare chance, but we might prevail upon him to join us in the formation of a company to take over his mine, La Libertad."

"Is that the name of it?" asked Ketchim, reaching for a writing pad. "Spell it for me, please. And the name of the old man."

Reed complied, and then continued: "Now, Mr. Ketchim, we are living strictly up to the letter of our contract by giving you this information. It would require not less than one hundred thousand dollars, cash in hand, to acquire that mine, develop it, make trails, and erect a stamp-mill. Mr. Harris and I are in no condition financially to advance or secure such an amount."

"It is barely possible," mused Harris, "that my father and Uncle John could do something."

"We don't have to call upon them!" cried Ketchim. "Your interest, Mr. Reed, in this mine already belongs to Molino, as you were acting under contract with us—"

"I have covered that point, Mr. Ketchim," replied Reed evenly. "But the time has come for us all to put our shoulders to the wheel, act fairly with one another, help the Molino stockholders, and at the same time make good ourselves. Mr. Harris and I have barely entered upon our business careers, and we have come to New York to establish ourselves. This may afford the opportunity. We know where this mine is—we know the old man, and may be able to influence him. To forestall possible complications, we should begin negotiations with him at once. But—remember—everything must be done in the name of the company, not in your own name. And Mr. Harris and I must personally negotiate with the old man, and receive a very liberal compensation for our work."

"Certainly!" cried the excited Ketchim. "Goodness, fellows! why didn't you tell me this yesterday over the 'phone, and save me a night of torment? But I forgive you. Gracious! Rawlins," he said, addressing that individual, who had entered in response to the buzzer, "'phone Cass to come right over. And tell Miss Honeywell to give you ten dollars for our lunch, and charge it to Molino. It's company business. By Jove, fellows! this is a happy day for me. Since the old man gave you a share in the mine, Molino has property, after all!"

"Has it to get," amended Harris dubiously.

"Oh, we'll get it!" cried Ketchim, rubbing his hands gleefully. "But now while waiting for Cass, tell me more about your trip. It is wonderful! And so romantic!"

In the midst of the ensuing recital, Cass was announced; and Ketchim, after detailing to him the previous conversation, launched into the project which had been developing in his own mind while Reed had been describing his experiences in the South.

"What we want is another organization, fellows," he said in conclusion, "to take over the tottering Molino; purchase its assets with stock; give Molino stockholders an opportunity to get in on the ground floor, and so on. We'll let Molino die in the arms of a new company, eh?"

"But one with a somewhat wider scope," suggested Cass, with an air of importance. "A sort of general development company, to secure La Libertad, if possible; prospect for other mineral properties; and develop the resources of the country."

"Just so," assented Ketchim, with increasing enthusiasm. "A company to go in for coffee, cotton—you say you saw wild cotton, didn't you, fellows? Great! And cocoanuts, timber, cattle—in fact, we'll get concessions from the Colombian Government, and we'll—"

"Just rip things wide open, eh?" finished Harris.

"That's it!" cried Ketchim radiantly. "Uncle Ted has influence at Washington, with the Pan American Union, and so on—why, we can get anything we want! Ames and the bank will both cool down—by Jove, this is great!"

"But where's the cold and vulgar cash coming from to oil the wheels?" put in the practical Harris.

"Oh, I can sell the stock," replied Ketchim. "Then, too, there's the Molino stockholders; why, I'll bet there's hardly one that wouldn't be able to scrape up a few dollars more for the new company! By the way, what'll we call it? Give us a name, somebody."

"I'd call it the Salvation Company," drawled Harris, "as it is likely to delay your trip to Sing Sing."

A general laugh, in which Ketchim joined heartily, followed the remark.

"I suggest we call it the Simiti Development Company," said Cass, after a moment's dignified reflection.

"Great!" cried Ketchim. "It has a prosperous ring! And now its capitalization? We must make it big!"

"Hem!" returned Cass. "If these gentlemen can acquire that mine, I think I would capitalize for, say, about three millions." He went to the desk and made some calculations. "I assume," he continued somewhat pompously after a few moments' figuring, "that you wish to retain me, and that I am to take my compensation in stock?"

Ketchim quickly assented. He knew that Cass had correctly concluded that in no other way was he likely to be reimbursed. And, at best, it was only a hazard, a wild gamble. In fact, it was a last desperate chance. Moreover, stock was always available; while cash was a rare commodity.

"Suppose, then," continued the sapient young lawyer, "that we capitalize for three millions; set aside one million, five hundred and one thousand as treasury stock, to be sold to raise money for development purposes; transfer to the Ketchim Realty Company one million, as compensation for acting as fiscal agents of the new company; transfer to these two gentlemen, as part compensation for past and future services, the sum of four hundred thousand in stock; give to the stockholders of the Molino Company the sum of fifty-nine thousand in stock for all the assets, machinery, good will, et cetera, of that company; and to me, for services to be rendered, forty thousand dollars' worth of the stock. All of us shall agree not to sell any of our personal holdings of stock until the company shall be placed upon a dividend-paying basis. And Mr. Reed, or Mr. Harris, or both, will return to Colombia immediately to relocate the mine, and prepare for its development, while the Ketchim Realty Company at once endeavor to sell the treasury stock."

Having delivered himself of this comprehensive plan, Cass settled back in his chair and awaited remarks.

"Well," observed Ketchim at length, "that's all right—only, I think we should be allowed to sell our personal stock if we wish. Of course," with a deprecating wave of his hand, "there isn't the slightest likelihood of our ever wanting to do that—with a mine such as you have described, fellows. But—why hedge us about?"

"Not one dollar's worth of your stock shall you be permitted to sell!" cried Harris, bringing his fist down upon the desk.

"I suggest that we leave that for the Directors to decide later," offered Cass, anxious to avoid discord. He was young, scarcely out of the twenties, just married, just admitted to the bar, and eager to get a toe-hold in the world of business. "And now," he concluded, "if agreeable to you, I will put this through at once, organize the company, and get the charter. You gentlemen will return to Colombia as soon as Mr. Ketchim can provide the necessary funds."

"Mr. Harris and I have formed an engineering partnership," said Reed. "As such, we will handle the affairs of the new company in Colombia. Mr. Harris will proceed to that country, while I go to California to open a copper mine which we have taken over there. In time I will relieve Mr. Harris in the South. Now, Mr. Ketchim, what can you do?"

"I'll send Houghton and Nezlett out on the road to-morrow. Rawlins has just told me of one prospect, a bully one! We don't need to wait for the papers from Albany before going ahead. But we find it costs about forty-eight cents to sell a dollar's worth of stock, and so some time will be needed to raise enough to send Mr. Harris back to Colombia—unless," he added, eying Harris furtively, "he will advance us the amount of his own expenses—"

"Which he will not!" retorted Harris warmly. "I haven't it, anyway. Nor has Reed. We're both broke."

"There's a revolution on down there now," said Reed, "and we'd better go easy for a while. Besides, Harris needs time to study the language. But, are we all agreed on the terms? Salary for Harris while in Colombia to be settled later, of course."

"It's all satisfactory, I think," said Ketchim, smiling happily. "The details can be worked out anon—Molino stockholders' meeting, and so on."

"Then," said Reed, rising, "we will consider the new company launched, to take over the defunct Molino and to operate on a comprehensive scale in Colombia, beginning with the development of La Libertad, if we can secure it."

At that moment Rawlins opened the door and peered in. "A gentleman to see Mr. Reed," he announced softly; "a priest, I believe."

Harris sprang to his feet. The door swung open, and Father Waite entered with Carmen.

With a glad cry the girl dropped her bundle and bounded into the arms of the astonished Harris. Reed grasped the priest's hand, and begged him to speak. Ketchim and the young lawyer looked on in perplexity.

"I was unable to find your name in the city directory, Mr. Reed," explained the priest, his face beaming with happiness. "But at police headquarters I found that you had made inquiries, and that detectives were searching for the girl. I learned that you were living with your wife's sister, and that you had no business address, having just come up from South America. So I telephoned to your sister-in-law, and your wife informed me that you had an appointment this morning at this office. I therefore came directly here with the girl, who, as you see, is safe and sound, but with an additional interesting experience or two to add to the large fund she already possessed." He looked down at Carmen and smiled. "And now," he concluded, laughing, as he prepared to depart, "I will not ask for a receipt for the child, as I see I have several witnesses to the fact that I have delivered her to the proper custodian." He bowed and went to the door.

"Wait!" cried Reed, seizing him by the hand. "We want to thank you! We want to know you—"

"I will give you my card," replied the priest. "And I would be very happy, indeed, if some time again I might be permitted to see and talk with the little girl." He handed his card to Reed; then nodded and smiled at Carmen and went out.

"By Jove!" sputtered Harris, pushing the girl aside and making after him. But he was too late. The priest had already caught a descending elevator, and disappeared. Harris returned to the bewildered group. "I guess that knocks the Simiti Company sky-high," he exclaimed, "for here is the sole owner of La Libertad!"

Ketchim collapsed into a chair, while Reed, saying that he would keep his dinner engagement with Ketchim on the following day, picked up Carmen's precious bundle and, taking her hand, left the room. "I am going home," he called back to Harris; "and you be sure to come up to the house to-night. We'll have to readjust our plans now."



CHAPTER 5

"Reed," said Harris the following day, as they sat in the dusty, creaking car that was conveying them to their dinner appointment with Ketchim, "who is this Ames that Ketchim referred to yesterday?"

The men were not alone, for Carmen accompanied them. Reed was reluctantly bringing her at the urgent request received from Ketchim over the telephone the previous evening. But the girl, subdued by the rush of events since her precipitation into the seething American world of materialism, sat apart from them, gazing with rapt attention through the begrimed window at the flying scenery, and trying to interpret it in the light of her own tenacious views of life and the universe. If the marvels of this new world into which she had been thrown had failed to realize her expectations—if she saw in them, and in the sense of life which they express, something less real, less substantial, than do those who laud its grandeur and power to charm—she gave no hint. She was still absorbing, sifting and digesting the welter of impressions. She had been overpowered, smothered by the innovation; and she now found her thoughts a tangled jumble, which she strove incessantly to unravel and classify according to their content of reality, as judged by her own standards.

"Why, Ames," replied Reed, turning a watchful eye upon Carmen, "is a multimillionaire financier of New York—surely you have heard of him! He and his clique practically own the United States, and a large slice of Europe. For some reason Ames bought a block of Molino stock. And now, I judge, Ketchim would give his chances on eternal life if he hadn't sold it to him. And that's what's worrying me, too. For, since Ames is heavily interested in Molino, what will he do to the new company that absorbs it?"

"There isn't going to be any new company," asserted Harris doggedly.

"There's got to be!" cried Reed. "Ketchim holds us strictly to our contract. Our negotiations with old Rosendo were made while in the employ of Molino. It wouldn't be so bad if we had only Ketchim to deal with. We've got the goods on him and could beat him. But here enters Ames, a man of unlimited wealth and influence. If he wants La Libertad, he's going to get it, you mark me! Where we fell down was in ever mentioning it to Ketchim. For if we don't come over now he will lay the whole affair before Ames. He told me over the 'phone last night that he was badly in debt—that Ames was pressing him—that many of the Molino stockholders were making pertinent inquiries. Oh, he quite opened his heart! And yesterday I saw on his desk a letter from Ames. I can imagine what it contained. Ketchim would sacrifice us and everything else to keep himself out of Ames's grip. We're in for it, I tell you! And all because we were a bit too previous in believing that the girl had disappeared for good."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Harris, "but doesn't it sound like a fairy-tale, the way Carmen got back to us?"

"And here I am," continued Reed, with a gesture of vexation, "left with the girl on my hands, and with a very healthy prospect of losing out all around. My wife said emphatically last night that she wouldn't be bothered with Carmen."