Lafelle did not answer. Then Carmen shook her head. "You see," she said, "your Church requires absolute submission to its age-worn authority. According to you, I have nothing to give. Very well, if your Church can receive nothing from me, and yet can give me nothing more than its impossible beliefs, undemonstrable this side of the grave, at least—then we must consider that a gulf is fixed between us.

"Oh, Monsignor," she pleaded, after a moment's silence, "you see, do you not? When Jesus said that he gave his disciples power over all evil, did he not mean likewise over all physical action, and over every physical condition? But did he mean that they alone should have such power? What a limiting of infinite Love! No, he meant that every one who followed him and strove ceaselessly for spirituality of thought should acquire that spirituality, and thereby cleanse himself of false beliefs, and make room for the Christ-principle to operate, even to the healing of the sick, to the raising of those mesmerized by the belief of death as a power and reality, and to the dematerializing of the whole material concept of the heavens and earth. Can't you, a churchman, see it? And can't you see how shallow your views are? Don't you know that even the physical body is but a part of the human, material concept, and therefore a part of the 'one lie' about God, who is Spirit?"

Lafelle had listened patiently. But now his time had come to speak in rebuttal. And yet, he would make no attempt to assail her convictions. He knew well that she would not yield—at least, to-day. He therefore played another card.

"Miss Carmen," he said gently, "the Church is ever doing beneficent deeds which do not come to light, and for which she receives no praise from men. Your own and Mrs. Hawley-Crowles's elevation to social leadership came through her. There is also a rumor that the Church afforded you an asylum on your first night in this city, when, if ever, you needed aid. The Church shielded and cared for you even in Simiti. Indeed, what has she not done for you? And do you now, alas! turn and rend her?"

"Monsignor," replied Carmen, "I am not unmindful of the care always bestowed upon me. And I am not ungrateful. But my gratitude is to my God, who has worked through many channels to bless me. My account is with Him. Leave it there, and fear not that I shall prove ungrateful to Him, to whom my every thought is consecrated."

Lafelle bit his lip. Then he spoke low and earnestly, while he held his gaze fixed upon the girl's bright eyes. "Miss Carmen, if you knew that the Church now afforded you the only refuge from the dangers that threaten, you would turn to her as a frightened child to its mother."

"I fear nothing, Monsignor," replied the girl, her face alight with a smile of complete confidence. "I am not the kind who may be driven by fear into acceptance of undemonstrable, unfounded theological beliefs. Fear has always been a terrible weapon in the hands of those who have sought to force their opinions upon their fellow-men. But it is powerless to influence me. Fear, Monsignor, is sin. It causes men to miss the mark. And it is time-honored. Indeed, according to the Bible allegory, it began in the very garden of Eden, when poor, deceived Adam confessed to God that he was afraid. If God was infinite then, as you admit you believe Him to be now, who or what made Adam afraid? Whence came the imaginary power of fear? For, 'God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.' God is love. And there is no fear in love."

"But, surely, Miss Carmen, you will not stubbornly close your eyes to threatening evil?"

"Monsignor, I close my eyes to all that is unlike God. He is everything to me. I know nothing but Him and His perfect manifestation."

Lafelle sat some moments in silence. The picture which he and the young girl formed was one of rare beauty and interest: he, weighted with years, white of hair, but rugged of form, with strikingly handsome features and kindly eyes—she, a child, delicate, almost wraith-like, glowing with a beauty that was not of earth, and, though untutored in the wiles of men, still holding at bay the sagacious representative of a crushing weight of authority which reached far back through the centuries, even to the Greek and Latin Fathers who put their still unbroken seal upon the strange elaborations which they wove out of the simple words of the Nazarene.

When the churchman again looked up and felt himself engulfed in the boundless love which emanated from that radiant, smiling girl, there surged up within him a mighty impulse to go to her, to clasp her in his arms, to fall at her feet and pray for even a mite of her own rare spirituality. The purpose which he had that morning formulated died within him; the final card which he would have thrown lay crushed in his hand. He rose and came and stood before her.

"The people believe you a child of the ancient Incas," he said slowly, taking her hand. "What if I should say that I know better?"

"I would say that you were right, Monsignor," she replied gently, looking up into his face with a sweet smile.

"Then you admit the identity of your father?"

"Yes, Monsignor."

"Ah! And that is—?"

"God."

The man bent for a moment over the little white hand, and then immediately left the house.



CHAPTER 18

Monsignor Lafelle in his interview with Carmen had thrown out a hint of certain rumors regarding her; but the days passed, and the girl awoke not to their significance. Then, one morning, her attention was attracted by a newspaper report of the farewell address of a young priest about to leave his flock. When she opened the paper and caught sight of the news item she gave a little cry, and immediately forgot all else in her absorption in the closing words:

"—and I have known no other ambition since the day that little waif from a distant land strayed into my life, lighting the dead lamp of my faith with the torch of her own flaming spirituality. She said she had a message for the people up here. Would to God she might know that her message had borne fruit!"

The newspaper slipped from the girl's hands to the floor. Her eyes, big and shining, stared straight before her. "And I will lead the blind by a way that they know not—" she murmured.

The telephone rang. It was Miss Wall, ready now for the postponed ride. Carmen clapped her hands and sang for joy as she summoned the car and made her preparations. "We'll go over to his church," she said aloud. "We'll find him!" She hurried back to the newspaper to get the address of the church from which he had spoken the preceding day. "They will know where he is," she said happily. "Oh, isn't it just wonderful!"

A few minutes later, with Miss Wall at her side, she was speeding to the distant suburb where the little church was located.

"We are going to find a priest," she said simply. "Oh, you mustn't ask me any questions! Mrs. Hawley-Crowles doesn't like to have me talk about certain things, and so I can't tell you."

Miss Wall glanced at her in wonder. But the happy, smiling countenance disarmed suspicion.

"Now tell me," Carmen went on, "tell me about yourself. I'm a missionary, you know," she added, thinking of Father Waite.

"A missionary! Well, are you trying to convert the society world?"

"Yes, by Christianity—not by what the missionaries are now teaching in the name of Christianity. I'll tell you all about it some day. Now tell me, why are you unhappy? Why is your life pitched in such a minor key? Perhaps, together, we can change it to a major."

Miss Wall could not help joining in the merry laugh. Then her face grew serious. "I am unhappy," she said, "because I have arrived nowhere."

Carmen looked at her inquiringly. "Well," she said, "that shows you are on the wrong track, doesn't it?"

"I'm tired of life—tired of everything, everybody!" Miss Wall sank back into the cushions with her lips pursed and her brow wrinkled.

"No, you are not tired of life," said Carmen quietly; "for you do not know what life is."

"No, I suppose not," replied the weary woman. "Do you?" she asked abruptly.

"Yes, it is God."

"Oh, don't mention that name, nor quote Scripture to me!" cried the woman, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "I've had that stuff preached at me until it turned my stomach! I hope you are not an emotional, weepy religionist. Let's not talk about that subject. I'm heartily sick of it!"

"All right," replied Carmen cheerily. "Padre Jose used to say—"

"Who's he?" demanded Miss Wall, somewhat curtly.

"Oh, he is a priest—"

"A priest! Dear me! do you constantly associate with priests, and talk religion?"

The young girl laughed. "Well," she responded, "I've had a good deal to do with both."

"And are you any better for it?"

"Oh, yes—lots!" she said quickly.

The woman regarded her with curiosity. "Tell me something about your life," she said. "They say you are a princess."

"Surely I am a princess," returned Carmen, laughing merrily. "Listen; I will tell you about big, glorious Simiti, and the wonderful castle I lived in there, and about my Prime Minister, Don Rosendo, and—well, listen, and then judge for yourself if I am not of royal extraction!"

Laughing again up into the mystified face of Miss Wall, the enthusiastic girl began to tell about her former life in far-off Guamoco.

As she listened, the woman's eyes grew wide with interest. At times she voiced her astonishment in sudden exclamations. And when the girl concluded her brief recital, she bent upon the sparkling face a look of mingled wonder and admiration. "Goodness! After going through all that, how can you be so happy now? And with all your kin down there in that awful war! Why—!"

"Don't you think I am a princess now?" Carmen asked, smiling up at her.

"I think you are a marvel!" was the emphatic answer.

"And—you don't want to know what it was that kept me through it all, and that is still guiding me?" The bright, animated face looked so eagerly, so lovingly, into the world-scarred features of her companion.

"Not if you are going to talk religion. Tell me, who is this priest you are seeking to-day, and why have you come to see him?"

"Father Waite. He is the one who found me—when I got lost—and took me to my friends."

The big car whirled around a corner and stopped before a dingy little church edifice surmounted by a weather-beaten cross. On the steps of a modest frame house adjoining stood a man. He turned as the car came up.

"Father Waite!" Carmen threw wide the door of the car and sprang out. "Father Waite!" clasping his hands. "Don't you know me? I'm Carmen!"

A light came into the startled man's eyes. He recognized her. Then he stepped back, that he might better see her. More than a year had passed since he had taken her, so oddly garbed, and clinging tightly to his hand, into the Ketchim office. And in that time, he thought, she had been transformed into a vision of heavenly beauty.

"Well!" cried the impatient girl. "Aren't you going to speak?" And with that she threw her arms about him and kissed him loudly on both cheeks.

The man and Miss Wall gave vent to exclamations of astonishment. He colored violently; Miss Wall sat with mouth agape.

"Aren't you glad to see me?" pursued the girl, again grasping his hands.

Then he found his tongue. "An angel from heaven could not be more welcome," he said. But his voice was low, and the note of sadness was prominent.

"Well, I am an angel from heaven," said the laughing, artless girl. "And I'm an Inca princess. And I'm just plain Carmen Ariza. But, whoever I am, I am, oh, so glad to see you again! I—" she looked about carefully—"I read your sermon in the newspaper this morning. Did you mean me?" she concluded abruptly.

He smiled wanly. "Yes, I meant you," he softly answered.

"Come with me now," said the eager girl. "I want to talk with you."

"Impossible," he replied, shaking his head.

"Then, will you come and see me?" She thought for a moment. "Why have you never been to see me? Didn't you know I was still in the city?"

"Oh, yes," he replied. "I used to see your name in the papers, often. And I have followed your career with great interest. But—you moved in a circle—from which I—well, it was hardly possible for me to come to see you, you know—"

"It was!" exclaimed the girl. "But, never mind, you are coming now. Here," drawing a card from her bag, "this is the address of Madam Beaubien. Will you come there to-morrow afternoon, at two, and talk with me?"

He looked at the card which she thrust into his hand, and then at the richly-gowned girl before him. He seemed to be in a dream. But he nodded his head slowly.

"Tell me," she whispered, "how is Sister Katie?"

Ah, if the girl could have known how that great-hearted old soul had mourned her "little bairn" these many months.

"I will go to see her," said Carmen. "But first you will come to me to-morrow." She beamed upon him as she clasped his hands again. Then she entered the car, and sat waving her hand back at him as long as he could see her.

It would be difficult to say which of the two, Miss Wall or Father Waite, was the more startled by this abrupt and lively rencontre. But to Carmen, as she sat back in the car absorbed in thought, it had been a perfectly natural meeting between two warm friends. Suddenly the girl turned to the woman. "You haven't anything but money, and fine clothes, and automobiles, and jewels, you think. And you want something better. Do you know? I know what it is you want."

"What is it?" asked the wondering woman, marveling at this strange girl who went about embracing people so promiscuously.

"Love."

The woman's lip trembled slightly when she heard this, but she did not reply.

"And I'm going to love you," the girl continued. "Oh, so much! You're tired of society gabble and gossip; you're tired of spending on yourself the money you never earned; you're not a bit of use to anybody, are you? But you want to be. You're a sort of tragedy, aren't you? Oh, I know. There are just lots of them in high society, just as weary as you. They haven't anything but money. And they lack the very greatest thing in all of life, the very thing that no amount of money will buy, just love! But, do you know? they don't realize that, in order to get, they must give. In order to be loved, they must themselves love. Now you start right in and love the whole world, love everybody, big and little. And, as you love people, try to see only their perfection. Never look at a bad trait, nor a blemish of any sort. Try it. In a week's time you will be a new woman."

"Do you do that?" the woman asked in a low tone.

"I have always done it," replied Carmen. "I don't know anything but love. I never knew what it was to hate or revile. I never could see what there was that deserved hatred or loathing. I don't see anything but good—everywhere."

The woman slipped an arm about the girl. "I—I don't mind your talking that way to me," she whispered. "But I just couldn't bear to listen to any more religion."

"Why!" exclaimed Carmen. "That's all there is to religion! Love is the tie that binds all together and all to God. Why, Miss Wall—"

"Call me Elizabeth, please," interrupted the woman.

"Well then, Elizabeth," she said softly, "all creeds have got to merge into just one, some day, and, instead of saying 'I believe,' everybody will say 'I understand and I love.' Why, the very person who loved more than anybody else ever did was the one who saw God most clearly! He knew that if we would see God—good everywhere—we would just simply have to love, for God is love! Don't you see? It is so simple!"

"Do you love me, Carmen, because you pity me?"

"No, indeed!" was the emphatic answer. "God's children are not to be pitied—and I see in people only His children."

"Well, why, then, do you love me?"

The girl replied quickly: "God is love. I am His reflection. I reflect Him to you. That's loving you.

"And now," she continued cheerily, "we are going to work together, aren't we? You are first going to love everybody. And then you are going to see just what is right for you to do—what work you are to take up—what interests you are to have. But love comes first."

"Tell me, Carmen, why are you in society? What keeps you there, in an atmosphere so unsuited to your spiritual life?"

"God."

"Oh, yes," impatiently. "But—"

"Well, Elizabeth dear, every step I take is ordained by Him, who is my life. I am where He places me. I leave everything to Him, and then keep myself out of the way. If He wishes to use me elsewhere, He will remove me from society. But I wait for Him."

The woman looked at her and marveled. How could this girl, who, in her few brief years, had passed through fire and flood, still love the hand that guided her!



CHAPTER 19

To the great horde of starving European nobility the daughters of American millionaires have dropped as heavenly manna. It was but dire necessity that forced low the bars of social caste to the transoceanic traffic between fortune and title.

That Mrs. Hawley-Crowles might ever aspire to the purchase of a decrepit dukedom had never entered her thought. A tottering earldom was likewise beyond her purchasing power. She had contented herself that Carmen should some day barter her rare culture, her charm, and her unrivaled beauty, for the more lowly title of an impecunious count or baron. But to what heights of ecstasy did her little soul rise when the young Duke of Altern made it known to her that he would honor her beautiful ward with his own glorious name—in exchange for La Libertad and other good and valuable considerations, receipt of which would be duly acknowledged.

"I—aw—have spoken to her, ye know, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles," that worthy young cad announced one afternoon, as he sat alone with the successful society leader in the warm glow of her living room. "And—bah Jove! she said we were engaged, ye know—really! Said we were awfully good friends, ye know, and all that. 'Pon my word! she said she loved me." For Reginald had done much thinking of late—and his creditors were restless.

"Why, you don't mean it!" cried the overpowered Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, beaming like a full-blown sunflower.

"But I do, really! Only—ye know, she'll have to be—coached a bit, ye know—told who we are—our ancestral history, and all that. You know what I mean, eh?"

"Of course—you dear boy! Why, she just couldn't help loving you!"

"No—aw—no, of course—that is—aw—she has excellent prospects—financial, I mean, eh? Mines, and all that, ye know—eh?"

"Why, she owns the grandest gold mine in all South America! Think of it!"

"Bah Jove! I—aw—I never was so attracted to a girl in all me blooming life! You will—a—speak to her, eh? Help me out, ye know. Just a few words, eh? You know what I mean?"

"Never fear, Reginald" she's yours. "There will be no opposition."

"Opposition! Certainly not—not when she knows about our family. And—aw—mother will talk with you—that is, about the details. She'll arrange them, ye know. I never was good at business."

And the haughty mother of the young Duke did call shortly thereafter to consult in regard to her son's matrimonial desires. The nerve-racking round of balls, receptions, and other society functions was quite forgotten by the elated Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, whose ears tingled deliciously under the pompous boastings of the Dowager Lady Altern. The house of Altern? Why, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles was convinced, after a half hour's conversation with this proud mother, that the royal house of Brunswick was but an impudent counterfeit! What was La Libertad worth? She knew not. But her sister's brother, Mr. Reed, who had hastily appraised it, had said that there was a mountain of gold there, only awaiting Yankee enterprise. And Carmen? There was proof positive that she was an Inca princess. Yes, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles was so honored by the deep interest which the young Duke manifested in the wonderful girl! And she would undertake negotiations with her at once. But it must be done wisely. Carmen was not like other girls. No, indeed!

And now Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had to plan very carefully. She was terribly in debt; yet she had resources. The Beaubien was inexhaustible. Ames, too, might be depended upon. And La Libertad—well, there was Mr. Philip O. Ketchim to reckon with. So she forthwith summoned him to a consultation.

But, ere her talk with that prince of finance, another bit of good fortune fell into the lady's spacious lap. Reed had written that he was doing poorly with his western mining ventures, and would have to raise money at once. He therefore offered to sell his interest in the Simiti Company. Moreover, he wanted his wife to come to him and make her home in California, where he doubtless would spend some years. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles offered him twenty-five thousand dollars for his Simiti interest; of which offer Reed wired his immediate acceptance. Then the lady packed her rueful sister Westward Ho! and laid her newly acquired stock before the Beaubien for a large loan. That was but a day before Ketchim called.

"Madam," said that suave gentleman, smiling piously, "you are a genius. Our ability to announce the Duke of Altern as our largest stockholder will result in a boom in the sales of Simiti stock. The Lord has greatly prospered our humble endeavors. Er—might I ask, Madam, if you would condescend to meet my wife some afternoon? We are rapidly acquiring some standing in a financial way, and Mrs. Ketchim would like to know you and some of the more desirable members of your set, if it might be arranged."

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles beamed her joy. She drew herself up with a regnant air. The people were coming to her, their social queen, for recognition!

"And there's my Uncle Ted, you know, Madam. He's president of the C. and R."

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles nodded and looked wise. "Possibly we can arrange it," she said. "But now about our other investments. What is Joplin Zinc doing?"

"Progressing splendidly, Madam. We shall declare a dividend this month."

The lady wondered, for Joplin Zinc was not yet in operation, according to the latest report.

* * * * *

Meantime, while Mrs. Hawley-Crowles was still laying her plans to herd the young girl into the mortgaged dukedom of Altern, Father Waite kept his appointment, and called at the Beaubien mansion on the afternoon Carmen had set. He was warmly received by the girl herself, who had been watching for his coming.

"Now," she began like a bubbling fountain, when they were seated in the music room, "where's Jude? I want to find her."

"Jude? Why, I haven't the slightest idea to whom you refer," returned the puzzled man.

"The woman who took me to the Sister Superior," explained Carmen.

"Ah! We never saw her again."

"Well," said the girl confidently, "I saw her, but she got away from me. But I shall find her—it is right that I should. Now tell me, what are you going to do?"

"I have no idea. Earn my living some way," he replied meditatively.

"You have lots of friends who will help you?"

"None," he said sadly. "I am an apostate, you know."

"Well, that means that you're free. The chains have dropped, haven't they?"

"But left me dazed and confused."

"You are not dazed, nor confused! Why, you're like a prisoner coming out of his dungeon into the bright sunlight. You're only blinking, that's all. And, as for confusion—well, if I would admit it to be true I could point to a terrible state of it! Just think, a duke wants to marry me; Mrs. Hawley-Crowles is determined that he shall; I am an Inca princess, and yet I don't know who I am; my own people apparently are swallowed up by the war in Colombia; and I am in an environment here in New York in which I have to fight every moment to keep myself from flying all to pieces! But I guess God intends to keep me here for the present. Oh, yes, and Monsignor Lafelle insists that I am a Catholic and that I must join his Church."

"Monsignor Lafelle! You—you know him?"

"Oh, yes, very well. And you?"

He evaded reply by another query. "Is Monsignor Lafelle working with Madam Beaubien, your friend?"

"I think not," laughed Carmen. "But Mrs. Hawley-Crowles—"

"Was it through him that she became a communicant?"

"Yes. Why?"

"And is he also working with Mr. J. Wilton Ames? He converted Mrs. Ames's sister, the Dowager Duchess, in England. The young Duke is also going to join the faith, I learn. But—you?" He stopped suddenly and looked searchingly at her.

At that moment a maid entered, bearing a card. Close on her heels followed the subject of their conversation, Monsignor himself.

As he entered, Carmen rose hastily to greet him. Lafelle bent over her hand. Then, as he straightened up, his glance fell upon Father Waite. The latter bowed without speaking. For a moment the two men stood eying each other sharply. Then Lafelle looked from Father Waite to Carmen quizzically. "I beg your pardon," he said, "I was not aware that you had a caller. Madam Beaubien, is she at home?"

"No," said Carmen simply. "She went out for a ride."

"Ah!" murmured Lafelle, looking significantly from the girl to Father Waite, while a smile curled his lips. "I see. I will intrude no further." He bowed again, and turned toward the exit.

"Wait!" rang forth Carmen's clear voice. She had caught the churchman's insinuating glance and instantly read its meaning. "Monsignor Lafelle, you will remain!"

The churchman's brows arched with surprise, but he came back and stood by the chair which she indicated.

"And first," went on the girl, standing before him like an incarnate Nemesis, her face flushed and her eyes snapping, "you will hear from me a quotation from the Scripture, on which you assume to be authority: 'As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he!'"

For a moment Lafelle flushed. Then his face darkened. Finally a bland smile spread over his features, and he sat down. The girl resumed her seat.

"Now, Monsignor Lafelle," she continued severely, "you have urged me to unite with your Church. When you asked me to subscribe to your beliefs I looked first at them, and then at you, their product. You have come here this afternoon to plead with me again. The thoughts which you accepted when you saw Father Waite here alone with me, are they a reflection of love, which thinketh no evil? Or do they reflect the intolerance, the bigotry, the hatred of the carnal mind? You told me that your Church would not let me teach it. Think you I will let it or you teach me?"

Father Waite sat amazed at the girl's stinging rebuke. When she concluded he rose to go.

"No!" said Carmen. "You, too, shall remain. You have left the Church of which Monsignor Lafelle is a part. Either you have done that Church, and him, a great injustice—or he does ignorant or wilful wrong in insisting that I unite with it."

"My dear child," said Lafelle gently, now recovered and wholly on his guard, "your impetuosity gets the better of your judgment. This is no occasion for a theological discussion, nor are you sufficiently informed to bear a part in such. As for myself, you unintentionally do me great wrong. As I have repeatedly told you, I seek only your eternal welfare. Else would I not labor with you as I do."

Carmen turned to Father Waite. "Is my eternal welfare dependent upon acceptance of the Church's doctrines?"

"No," he said, in a scarcely audible voice.

A cynical look came into Lafelle's eyes. But he replied affably: "When preachers fall out, the devil falls in. Your reply, Mr. Waite, comes quite consistently from one who has impudently tossed aside authority."

"My authority, Monsignor," returned the ex-priest in a low tone, "is Jesus Christ, who said: 'Love thy neighbor as thyself.'"

"Ah!" murmured Lafelle; "then it was love that prompted you to abandon your little flock?"

"I left my pulpit, Monsignor, because I had nothing to give my people. I no longer believe the dogmas of the Church. And I refused longer to take the poor people's money to support an institution so politically religious as I believe your Church to be. I could no longer take their money to purchase the release of their loved ones from an imagined purgatory—a place for which there is not the slightest Scriptural warrant—"

"You mistake, sir!" interrupted Lafelle in an angry tone.

"Very well, Monsignor," replied Father Waite; "grant, then, that there is such Scriptural warrant; I would nevertheless know that the existence of purgatory was wholly incompatible with the reign of an infinite God of love. And, knowing that, I have ceased to extort gifts of money from the ignorance of the living and the ghastly terrors of the dying—"

"And so deceive yourself that you are doing a righteous act in removing their greatest consolation," the churchman again interrupted, a sneer curving his lip.

"Consolation! The consolation which the stupifying drug affords, yes! Ah, Monsignor, as I looked down into the faces of my poor people, week after week, I knew that no sacerdotal intervention was needed to remit their sins, for their sins were but their unsolved problems of life. Oh, the poor, grief-stricken mothers who bent their tear-stained eyes upon me as I preached the 'authority' of the Fathers! Well I knew that, when I told them from my pulpit that their deceased infants, if baptized, went straight to heaven, they blindly, madly accepted my words! And when I went further and told them that their dead babes had joined the ranks of the blessed, and could thenceforth be prayed to, could I wonder that they rejoiced and eagerly grasped the false message of cheer? They believed because they wanted it to be so. And yet those utterances of mine, based upon the accepted doctrine of Holy Church, were but narcotics, lulling those poor, afflicted minds into a false sense of rest and security, and checking all further human progress."

Lafelle shrugged his shoulders. "It is to be regretted," he said coldly, "that such narrowness of view should be permitted to impede the salvation of souls."

"Salvation—of—souls!" exclaimed Father Waite. "Ah, how many souls have I not saved!—and yet I know not whether they or I be really saved! Saved? From what? From death? Certainly not! From misery, disease, suffering in this life? No, alas, no! Saved, then, from what? Ah, my friend, saved only from the torments of a hell and a purgatory constructed in the fertile minds of busy theologians!"

Lafelle turned to Carmen. "Some other day, perhaps—when it may be more convenient for us both—and you are alone—"

Carmen laughed. "Don't quit the field, Monsignor—unless you surrender abjectly. You started this controversy, remember. And you were quite indiscreet, if you will recall."

Monsignor bowed, smiling. "You write my faults in brass," he gently lamented. "When you publish my virtues, if you find that I am possessed of any, I fear you will write them in water."

Carmen laughed again. "Your virtues should advertise themselves, Monsignor."

"Ah, then do you not see in me the virtue of desiring your welfare above all else, my child?"

"And the welfare of this great country, which you have come here to assist in making dominantly Catholic, is it not so, Monsignor?"

Lafelle started slightly. Then he smiled genially back at the girl. "It is an ambition which I am not ashamed to own," he returned gently.

"But, Monsignor," Carmen continued earnestly, "are you not aware of the inevitable failure of your mission? Do you not know that mediaeval theology comports not with modern progress?"

"True, my child," replied the churchman. "And more, that our so-called modern progress—modernism, free-thinking, liberty of conscience, and the consequent terrible extravagance of beliefs and false creeds—constitutes the greatest menace now confronting this fair land. Its end is inevitable anarchy and chaos. Perhaps you can see that."

"Monsignor," said Carmen, "in the Middle Ages the Church was supreme. Emperors and kings bowed in submission before her. The world was dominantly Catholic. Would you be willing, for the sake of Church supremacy to-day, to return to the state of society and civilization then obtaining?"

"That would not follow."

"No? I point you to Mexico, Cuba, the Philippines, South America, all Catholic now or formerly, and I ask if you attribute not their oppression, their ignorance, their low morals and stunted manhood, to the dominance of churchly doctrines, which oppose freedom of conscience and press and speech, and make learning the privilege of the clergy and the rich?"

"It is an old argument, child," deprecated Lafelle. "May I not point to France, on the contrary?"

"She has all but driven the Church from her borders."

"But is still Catholic!" he retorted. "And England, though Anglican, calls herself Catholic. She will return to the true fold. Germany is forsaking Luther, as she sees the old light shining still undimmed."

Carmen looked at Father Waite. The latter read in her glance an invitation further to voice his own convictions.

"Monsignor doubtless misreads the signs of the times," he said slowly. "The hour has struck for the ancient and materialistic theories enunciated with such assumption of authority by ignorant, often blindly bigoted theologians, to be laid aside. The religion of our fathers, which is our present-day evangelical theology, was derived from the traditions of the early churchmen. They put their seal upon it; and we blindly accept it as authority, despite the glaring, irrefutable fact that it is utterly undemonstrable. Why do the people continue to be deceived by it? Alas! only because of its mesmeric promise of immortality beyond the grave."

Monsignor bowed stiffly in the direction of Father Waite. "Fortunately, your willingness to plunge the Christian world into chaos will fail of concrete results," he said coldly.

"I but voice the sentiments of millions, Monsignor. For them, too, the time has come to put by forever the paraphernalia of images, candles, and all the trinkets used in the pagan ceremonial which has so quenched our spirituality, and to seek the undivided garment of the Christ."

"Indeed!" murmured Lafelle.

"The world to-day, Monsignor, stands at the door of a new era, an era which promises a grander concept of God and religion, the tie which binds all to Him, than has ever before been known. We are thinking. We are pondering. We are delving, studying, reflecting. And we are at last beginning to work with true scientific precision and system. As in chemistry, mathematics, and the physical sciences, so in matters religious, we are beginning to prove our working hypotheses. And so a new spiritual enlightenment is come. People are awaking to a dim perception of the meaning of spiritual life, as exemplified in Jesus Christ. And they are vaguely beginning to see that it is possible to every one. The abandonment of superstition, religious and other, has resulted in such a sudden expansion of the human mind that the most marvelous material progress the world has ever witnessed has come swiftly upon us, and we live more intensely in a single hour to-day than our fathers lived in weeks before us. Oh, yes, we are already growing tired of materiality. The world is not yet satisfied. We are not happy. But, Monsignor, let not the Church boast itself that the acceptance of her mediaeval dogmas will meet the world's great need. That need will be met, I think, only as we more and more clearly perceive the tremendous import of the mission of Jesus, and learn how to grasp and apply the marvelous Christ-principle which he used and told us we should likewise employ to work out our salvation."

During Father Waite's earnest talk Lafelle sat with his eyes fixed upon Carmen. When the ex-priest concluded, the churchman ignored him and vouchsafed no reply.

"Well, Monsignor?" said the girl, after waiting some moments in expectation.

Lafelle smiled paternally. Then, nodding his shapely head, he said in a pleading tone:

"Have I no champion here? Would you, too, suddenly abolish the Church, Catholic and Protestant alike? Why, my dear child, with your ideals—which no one appreciates more highly than I—do you continue to persecute me so cruelly? Can not you, too, sense the unsoundness of the views just now so eloquently voiced?"

"That is cant, Monsignor! You speak wholly without authority or proof, as is your wont."

The man winced slightly. "Well," he said, "there are several hundred million Catholics and Protestants in the world to-day. Would you presume to say that they are all mistaken, and that you are right? Something of an assumption, is it not? Indeed, I think you set the Church an example in that respect."

"Monsignor, there were once several hundred millions who believed that the earth was flat, and that the sun revolved about it. Were they mistaken?"

"Yes. But the—"

"And, Monsignor, there are billions to-day who believe that matter is a solid, substantial reality, and that it possesses life and sensation. There are billions who believe that the physical eyes see, and the ears hear, and the hands feel. Yet these beliefs are all capable of scientific refutation. Did you know that?"

"I am not unacquainted with philosophical speculation," he returned suggestively.

"This is not mere speculation, Monsignor," put in Father Waite. "The beliefs of the human mind are its fetish. Such beliefs become in time national customs, and men defend them with frenzy, utterly wrong and undemonstrable though they be. Then they remain as the incubus of true progress. By them understanding becomes degraded, and the human mind narrows and shrinks. And the mind that clings to them will then mercilessly hunt out the dissenting minds of its heretical neighbors and stone them to death for disagreeing. So now, you would stone me for obeying Christ's command to take up my bed on the Sabbath day."

Lafelle heaved a great sigh. "Still you blazon my faults," he said in a tone of mock sadness, and addressing Carmen. "But, like the Church which you persecute, I shall endure. We have been martyred throughout the ages. And we are very patient. Our wayward children forsake us," nodding toward Father Waite, "and yet we welcome their return when they have tired of the husks. The press teems with slander against us; we are reviled from east to west. But our reply is that such slander and untruth can best be met by our leading individual lives of such an exemplary nature as to cause all men to be attracted by our holy light."

"I agree with you, Monsignor," quickly replied Carmen. "Scurrilous attacks upon the Church but make it a martyr. Vilification returns upon the one who hurls the abuse. One can not fling mud without soiling one's hands. I oppose not men, but human systems of thought. Whatever is good will stand, and needs no defense. Whatever is erroneous must go. And there is no excuse, for salvation is at hand."

"Salvation? And your thought regarding that?" he said in a skirmishing tone.

"Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts," she replied earnestly. "To him that soweth righteousness—right thinking—shall be a sure reward. Ah, Monsignor, do you at heart believe that the religion of the Christ depends upon doctrines, signs, dogmas? No, it does not. But signs and proofs naturally and inevitably follow the right understanding of Jesus' teachings, even according to these words: These signs shall follow them that believe. Paul gave the formula for salvation, when he said: But we all with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit of the Lord. Can you understand that? Can you see that, taking Jesus as our model and following his every command—seeing Him only, the Christ-principle, which is God, good, without any admixture of evil—we change, even though slowly, from glory to glory, step by step, until we rise out of all sense of evil and death? And this is done by the Spirit which is God."

"Yes," said Father Waite, taking up the conversation when she paused. "Even the poorest human being can understand that. Why, then, the fungus growth of traditions, ceremonies, rites and forms which have sprung up about the Master's simple words? Why the wretched formalistic worship throughout the world? Why the Church's frigid, lifeless traditions, so inconsistent with the enlarging sense of God which marks this latest century? The Church has yet to prove its utility, its right to exist and to pose as the religious teacher of mankind. Else must it fall beneath the axe which is even now at the root of the barren tree of theology. Her theology, like the Judaism of the Master's day, has no prophets, no poets, no singers. And her priests, as in his time, have sunk into a fanatical observance of ritual and form."

"And yet," observed Carmen, "you still urge me to unite with it."

Lafelle was growing weary. Moreover, it irked him sore to be made a target for the unassailable logic of the apostate Waite. Then, too, the appearance of the ex-priest there that afternoon in company with this girl who held such radical views regarding religious matters portended in his thought the possibility of a united assault upon the foundations of his cherished system. This girl was now a menace. She nettled and exasperated him. Yet, he could not let her alone. Did he have the power to silence her? He thought he had.

"Have you finished with me?" he asked, with a show of gaiety. "If so, I will depart."

"Yes," replied Carmen, "you may go now."

Lafelle paled. He had not expected that reply. He was stung to the quick. What! dismissed like a lackey? He, Monsignor, a dignitary of Holy Church? He could not believe it! He turned upon the girl and her companion, furious with anger.

"I have been very patient with you both," he said in a voice that he could not control. "But there is a reasonable limit. Abuse the Church as you will, the fact remains that the world fears her and trembles before her awful voice! Why? Because the world recognizes her mighty power, a power of unified millions of human beings and exhaustless wealth. She is the leader, the guide, the teacher, the supreme object of worship of a countless army who would lay down their lives to-day for her. Her subjects gather from every quarter of the globe. They are English, French, German, American—but they are Catholics first! Emperor, King, Ruler, or Government—all are alike subject to her supreme, divine authority! Nationalities, customs, family ties—all melt away before her, to whom her followers bow in loyal consecration. The power which her supreme leader and head wields is all but omnipotent! He is by divine decree Lord of the world. Hundreds of millions bend before his throne and offer him their hearts and swords! I say, you have good reason to quake! Aye, America has reason to fear! The onward march of Holy Church is not disturbed by the croaking calumnies of such as you who would assault her! And to you I say, beware!" His face was purple, as he stopped and mopped his damp brow.

"What we have to beware of, Monsignor," said Father Waite gravely, "is the steady encroachments of Rome in this country, with her weapons of fear, ignorance, and intolerance—"

"Intolerance! You speak of intolerance! Why, in this country, whose Constitution provided toleration for every form of religion—"

Carmen had risen and gone to the man. "Monsignor," she said, "the founders of the American nation did provide for religious tolerance—and they were wise according to their light. But we of this day are still wiser, for we have some knowledge of the wonderful working of mental laws. I, too, believe in toleration of opinion. You are welcome to yours, and I to mine. But—and here is the great point—the opinion which Holy Church has held throughout the ages regarding those who do not accept her dogmas is that they are damned, that they are outcasts of heaven, that they merit the stake and rack. The Church's hatred of heretics has been deadly. Her thought concerning them has not been that of love, such as Jesus sent out to all who did not agree with him, but deadly, suggestive hatred. Now our Constitution does not provide for tolerance of hate and murder-thoughts, which enter the minds of the unsuspecting and work destruction there in the form of disease, disaster, and death. That is what we object to in you, Monsignor. You murder your opponents with your poisonous thoughts. And toward such thoughts we have a right to be very intolerant, even to the point of destroying them in human mentalities. Again I say, I war not against people, but against the murderous carnal thought of the human mind!"

Monsignor had fallen back before the girl's strong words. His face had grown black, and his hands were working convulsively.

"Monsignor," continued Carmen in a low, steady voice, "you have threatened me with something which you apparently hold over me. You are very like the people of Galilee: if you can not refute by reason, you would circumvent by law, by the Constitution, by Congress. That failing, you would destroy. Instead of threatening us with the flames of hell for not being good, why do you not show us by the great example of Jesus' love how to be so? Are you manifesting love now—or the carnal mind? I judge your Church by such as manifest it to me. How, then, shall I judge it by you to-day?"

He rose slowly and took her by the hand. "I beg your pardon," he said in a strange, unnatural voice. "I was hasty. As you see, I am zealous. Naturally, I resent misjudgment. And I assure you that you quite misunderstand me, and the Church which I represent. But—I may come again?"

"Surely, Monsignor," returned the girl heartily. "A debate such as this is stimulating, don't you think so?"

He bowed and turned to go. Just then the Beaubien appeared.

"Ah, Monsignor," she said lightly, as she stepped into the room. "You are exclusive. Why have you avoided me since your return to America?"

"Madam," replied Lafelle, in some confusion, "no one regrets more than I the press of business which necessitated it. But your little friend has told me I may return."

"Always welcome, Monsignor," replied the Beaubien, scanning him narrowly as she accompanied him to the door. "By the way, you forgot our little compact, did you not?" she added coldly.

"Madam, I came out of a sense of duty."

"Of that I have no doubt, Monsignor. Adieu."

She returned again to the music room, where Carmen made her acquainted with Father Waite, and related the conversation with Lafelle. While the girl talked the Beaubien's expression grew serious. Then Carmen launched into her association with the ex-priest, concluding with: "And he must have something to do, right away, to earn his living!"

The Beaubien laughed. She always did when Carmen, no matter how serious the conversation, infused her sparkling animation into it. "That isn't nearly as important as to know what he thinks about Monsignor's errand here this afternoon, dearie," she said.

Father Waite bowed. "Madam," he said with great seriousness, "I would be very wide awake."

The Beaubien studied him for a moment. "Why?" she asked.

"I think—I think—" He hesitated, and looked at Carmen.

"Well?" impatiently.

"I think he—has been greatly angered by—this girl—and by my presence here."

"Ah!" Her face set hard. Then abruptly: "What are you going to do now?"

"I have funds enough to keep me some weeks, Madam, while making plans for the future."

"Then remain where I can keep in touch with you."

For the Beaubien had just returned from a two hours' ride with J. Wilton Ames, and she felt that she needed a friend.



CHAPTER 20

The Beaubien sat in the rounded window of the breakfast room. Carmen nestled at her feet. The maid had just removed the remains of the light luncheon.

"Dearest, please, please don't look so serious!"

The Beaubien twined her fingers through the girl's flowing locks. "I will try, girlie," she said, though her voice broke.

Carmen looked up into her face with a wistful yearning. "Will you not tell me?" she pleaded. "Ever since Monsignor Lafelle and Father Waite were here you have been so quiet; and that was nearly a week ago. I know I can help, if you will only let me."

"How would you help, dearie?" asked the woman absently.

"By knowing that God is everywhere, and that evil is unreal and powerless," came the quick, invariable reply.

"My sweet child! Can nothing shake your faith?"

"No. Why, if I were chained to a stake, with fire all around me, I'd know it wasn't true!"

"I think you are chained—and the fire has been kindled," said the woman in a voice that fell to a whisper.

"Then your thought is wrong—all wrong! And wrong thought just can't be externalized to me, for I know that 'There shall no mischief happen to the righteous,' that is, to the right-thinking. And I think right."

"I'm sure you do, child." The Beaubien got up and walked slowly around the room, as if to summon her strength. Then she returned to her chair.

"I'm going to tell you," she said firmly. "You are right, and I have been wrong. It concerns you. And you have help that I have not. I—I have lost a great deal of money."

Carmen laughed in relief. "Well, dear me! that's nothing."

The Beaubien smiled sadly. "I agree with you. Mr. Ames may have my money. I have discovered in the past few months that there are better things in life. But—" her lips tightened, and her eyes half closed—"he can not have you!"

"Oh! He wants me?"

"Yes. Listen, child: I know not why it is, but you awaken something in every life into which you come. The woman I was a year ago and the woman I am to-day meet almost as strangers now. Why? The only answer I can give is, you. I don't know what you did to people in South America; I can only surmise. Yet of this I am certain, wherever you went you made a path of light. But the effect you have on people differs with differing natures. Just why this is, I do not know. It must have something to do with those mental laws of which I am so ignorant, and of which you know so much."

Carmen looked at her in wondering anticipation. The Beaubien smiled down into the face upturned so lovingly, and went on:

"From what you have told me about your priest, Jose, I know that you were the light of his life. He loved you to the complete obliteration of every other interest. You have not said so; but I know it. How, indeed, could it be otherwise? On the other hand, that heartless Diego—his mad desire to get possession of you was only animal. Why should you, a child of heaven, arouse such opposite sentiments?"

"Dearest," said the girl, laying her head on the woman's knees, "that isn't what's worrying you."

"No—but I think of it so often. And, as for me, you have turned me inside-out."

Carmen laughed again merrily. "Well, I think this side wears better, don't you?"

"It is softer—it may not," returned the woman gently. "But I have no desire to change back." She bent and kissed the brown hair. "Mr. Ames and I have been—no, not friends. I had no higher ideals than he, and I played his game with him. Then you came. And at a time when he had involved me heavily financially. The Colombian revolution—his cotton deal—he must have foreseen, he is so uncanny—he must have known that to involve me meant control whenever he might need me! He needs me now, for I stand between him and you."

"You don't!" Carmen was on her feet. "God stands between me and every form of evil!" She sat down on the arm of the Beaubien's chair. "Is it because you will not let him have me that he threatens to ruin you financially?"

"Yes. He couldn't ruin me in reputation, for—" her voice again faded to a whisper, "I haven't any."

"That is not true!" cried the girl, throwing her arms about the woman's neck. "Your true self is just coming to light! Why, it is beautiful! And I love it so!"

The Beaubien suddenly burst into a flood of tears. The strain of weeks was at last manifesting. "Oh, I have been in the gutter!—he dragged me through the mire!—and I let him! I did it for money, money! I gave my soul for it! I schemed and plotted with him; I ruined and pillaged with him; I murdered reputations and blasted lives with him, that I might get money, dirty, blood-stained money! Oh, Carmen, I didn't know what I was doing, until you came! And now I'd hang on the cross if I could undo it! But it's too late! And he has you and me in his clutches, and he is crushing us!" She bent her head and sobbed violently.

Carmen bent over the weeping woman. "Be still, and know that I am God." The Beaubien raised her head and smiled feebly through her tears.

"He governs all, dearest," whispered Carmen, as she drew the woman's head to her breast. "And He is everywhere."

"Let us go away!" cried the Beaubien, starting up.

"Flee from our problems?" returned the girl. "But they would follow. No, we will stay and meet them, right here!"

The Beaubien's hand shook as she clasped Carmen's. "I can't turn to Kane, nor to Fitch, nor Weston. They are all afraid of him. I've ruined Gannette myself—for him! I've ruined Mrs. Hawley-Crowles—"

"Mrs. Hawley-Crowles!" exclaimed Carmen, rising.

"Oh, don't, don't!" sobbed the suffering woman, clinging to the girl.

"But—how did you do that?"

"I lent her money—took her notes—which I sold again to Mr. Ames."

"Well, you can buy them back, can't you? And return the money to her?"

"I can't! I've tried! He refuses to sell them!"

"Then give her your own money."

"Most that I have is mortgaged to him on the investments I made at his direction," wailed the woman.

"Well?"

"I will try—I am trying, desperately! I will save her, if I can! But—there is Monsignor Lafelle!"

"Is he working with Mr. Ames?"

"He works with and against him. And I'm sure he holds something over you and me. But, I will send for him—I will renew my vows to his Church—anything to—"

"Listen, dearest," interrupted Carmen. "I will go to Mr. Ames myself. If I am the cause of it all, I can—"

"You will not!" cried the Beaubien fiercely. "I—I would kill him!"

"Why, mother dearest!"

The desperate woman put her head in the girl's lap and sobbed bitterly.

"There is a way out, dearest," whispered Carmen. "I know there is, no matter what seems to be or to happen, for 'underneath are the everlasting arms.' I am not afraid. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles told me this morning that Mrs. Ames intends to give a big reception next week. Of course we will go. And then I will see Mr. Ames and talk with him. Don't fear, dearest. He will do it for me. And—it will be right, I know."

And Carmen sat with the repentant woman all that day, struggling with her to close the door upon her sordid past, and to open it wide to "that which is to come."

* * * * *

The days following were busy ones for many with whom our story is concerned. Every morning saw Carmen on her way to the Beaubien, to comfort and advise. Every afternoon found her yielding gently to the relentless demands of society, or to the tiresome calls of her thoroughly ardent wooer, the young Duke of Altern. Carmen would have helped him if she could. But she found so little upon which to build. And she bore with him largely on account of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, for whom she and the Beaubien were now daily laboring. The young man tacitly assumed proprietorship over the girl, and all society was agog with expectation of the public announcement of their engagement.

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles still came and went upon a tide of unruffled joy. The cornucopia of Fortune lay full at her feet. Her broker, Ketchim, basked in the sunlight of her golden smiles—and quietly sold his own Simiti stock on the strength of her patronage. Society fawned and smirked at her approach, and envied her brilliant success, as it copied the cut of her elaborate gowns—all but the deposed Mrs. Ames and her unlovely daughter, who sulked and hated, until they received a call from Monsignor Lafelle. This was shortly after that gentleman's meeting with Carmen and Father Waite in the Beaubien mansion. And he left the Ames home with an ominous look on his face. "The girl is a menace," he muttered, "and she deserves her fate."

The Ames grand reception, promising to be the most brilliant event of the year, barring the famous Bal de l'Opera, was set for Thursday. But neither Mrs. Hawley-Crowles nor Carmen had received invitations. To the former it was evident that there was some mistake. "For it can't be possible that the hussy doesn't intend to invite us!" she argued. But Thursday morning came, and found Mrs. Hawley-Crowles drenched with tears of anxiety and vexation. "I'd call her up and ask, if I dared," she groaned. But her courage failed. And, to the amazement of the exclusive set, the brilliant function was held without the presence of its acknowledged leaders, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and her ward, the Inca princess.

* * * * *

On Wednesday night Harris arrived from Denver. His arrival was instantly made known to J. Wilton Ames, who, on the morning following, summoned both him and Philip O. Ketchim to his private office. There were present, also, Monsignor Lafelle and Alonzo Hood. Harris and Ketchim came together. The latter was observed to change color as he timidly entered the room and faced the waiting audience.

"Be seated, gentlemen," said Ames genially, after cordially shaking hands with them and introducing the churchman. Then, turning to Harris, "You are on your way to Colombia, I learn. Going down to inaugurate work on the Simiti holdings, I suppose?"

Harris threw a quick glance at Ketchim. The latter sat blank, wondering if there were any portions of the earth to which Ames's long arms did not reach.

"As a matter of fact," Ames continued, leaning back in his chair and pressing the tips of his fingers together before him, "a hitch seems to have developed in Simiti proceedings. I am interested, Mr. Ketchim," turning suddenly and sharply upon that gentleman, "because my brokers have picked up for me several thousand shares of the stock."

Ketchim's hair began to rise.

"But," proceeded Ames calmly, "now that I have put money into it, I learn that the Simiti Company has no property whatever in Colombia."

A haze slowly gathered before Ketchim's eyes. His ears hummed. His heart throbbed violently. "How do you make that out, Mr. Ames?" he heard Harris say in a voice that seemed to come from an infinite distance. "I myself saw the title papers which old Rosendo had, and saw them transferred to Mr. Ketchim for the Simiti Company. Moreover, I personally visited the mine in question."

"La Libertad? Quite so," returned Ames. "But, here's the rub. The property was relocated by this Rosendo, and he secured title to it under the name of the Chicago mine. It was that name which deceived the clerks in the Department of Mines in Cartagena, and caused them to issue title, not knowing that it really was the famous old La Libertad."

"Well, I don't see that there is any ground for confusion."

"Simply this," returned Ames evenly: "La Libertad mine, since the death of its former owner, Don Ignacio de Rincon, has belonged to the Church."

"What!" Harris was on his feet. "By what right does it belong to the Church?"

"By the ancient law of 'en manos muertas', my friend," replied Ames, unperturbed.

"Good Lord! what's that?"

"Our friend, Monsignor Lafelle, representing the Church, will explain," said Ames, waving a hand toward that gentleman.

Lafelle cleared his throat. "I deeply regret this unfortunate situation, gentlemen," he began. "But, as Mr. Ames has pointed out, the confusion came about through issuing title to the mine under the name Chicago. Don Ignacio de Rincon, long before his departure from Colombia after the War of Independence, drew up his last will, and, following the established custom among wealthy South Americans of that day, bequeathed this mine, La Libertad, and other property, to the Church, invoking the old law of 'en manos muertas' which, being translated, means, 'in dead hands.' Pious Catholics of many lands have done the same throughout the centuries. Such a bequest places property in the custody of the Church; and it may never be sold or disposed of in any way, but all revenue from it must be devoted to the purchase of Masses for the souls in purgatory. It was through the merest chance, I assure you, that your mistake was brought to light. Knowing that our friend, Mr. Ames, had purchased stock in your company, I took the pains to investigate while in Cartagena recently, and made the discovery which unfortunately renders your claim to the mine quite null."

"God a'mighty!" exploded Harris. "Did you know this?" turning savagely upon the paralyzed Ketchim.

"That," interposed Ames with cruel significance, "is a matter which he will explain in court."

Fleeting visions of the large blocks of stock which he had sold; of the widows, orphans, and indigent clergymen whom he had involved; of the notes which the banks held against him; of his questionable deals with Mrs. Hawley-Crowles; and of the promiscuous peddling of his own holdings in the now ruined company, rushed over the clouded mind of this young genius of high finance. His tongue froze, though his trembling body dripped with perspiration. Somehow he got to his feet. Somehow he found the door, and groped his way to a descending elevator. And somehow he lived through that terror-haunted day and night.

But very early next morning, while his blurred eyes were drinking in the startling report of the Simiti Company's collapse, as set forth in the newspaper which he clutched in his shaking hand, the maid led in a soft-stepping gentleman, who laid a hand upon his quaking shoulder and read to him from a familiar-looking document an irresistible invitation to take up lodgings in the city jail.

* * * * *

There were other events forward at the same time, which came to light that fateful next day. It was noon when Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, after a night of mingled worry and anger over the deliberate or unintentional exclusion of herself and Carmen from the Ames reception the preceding night, descended to her combined breakfast and luncheon. At her plate lay the morning mail, including a letter from France. She tore it open, hastily scanned it, then dropped with a gasp into her chair.

"Father—married to—a French—adventuress! Oh!"

The long-cherished hope of a speedy inheritance of his snug fortune lay blasted at her feet.

The telephone bell rang sharply, and she rose dully to answer it. The call came from the city editor of one of the great dailies. "It is reported," said the voice, "that your ward, Miss Carmen Ariza, is the illegitimate daughter of a negro priest, now in South America. We would like your denial, for we learn that it was for this reason that you and the young lady were not included among the guests at the Ames reception last evening."

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles's legs tottered under her, as she blindly wandered from the telephone without replying. Carmen—the daughter of a priest! Her father a negro—her mother, what? She, a mulatto, illegitimate—!

The stunned woman mechanically took up the morning paper which lay on the table. Her glance was at once attracted to the great headlines announcing the complete exposure of the Simiti bubble. Her eyes nearly burst from her head as she grasped its fatal meaning to her. With a low, inarticulate sound issuing from her throat, she turned and groped her way back to her boudoir.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, the automobile in which Carmen was speeding to the Beaubien mansion was approached by a bright, smiling young woman, as it halted for a moment at a street corner. Carmen recognized her as a reporter for one of the evening papers, who had called often at the Hawley-Crowles mansion that season for society items.

"Isn't it fortunate!" exclaimed the young reporter. "I was on my way to see you. Our office received a report this morning from some source that your father—you know, there has been some mystery about your parentage—that he was really a priest, of South America. His name—let me think—what did they say it was?"

"Jose?" laughed the innocent girl, utterly unsuspecting. The problem of her descent had really become a source of amusement to her.

"It began with a D, if I am not mistaken. I'm not up on Spanish names," the young woman returned pleasantly.

"Oh, perhaps you mean Diego."

"That's it! Was that your father's name? We're very much interested to know."

"Well, I'm sure I can't say. It might have been."

"Then you don't deny it?"

"No; how can I?" she said, smiling. "I never knew him."

"But—you think it was, don't you?"

"Well, I don't believe it was Padre Diego—he wasn't a good man."

"Then you knew him?"

"Oh, very well! I was in his house, in Banco. He used to insist that I was his child."

"I see. By the way, you knew a woman named Jude, didn't you? Here in the city."

"Yes, indeed!" she exclaimed excitedly. "Do you know where she is?"

"No. But she took you out of a house down on—"

"Yes. And I've tried to find her ever since."

"You know Father Waite, too, the ex-priest?"

"Oh, yes, very well. We're good friends."

"You and he going to work together, I suppose?"

"Why, I'm sure I don't know. He's very unsettled."

"H'm! yes. Well, I thank you very much. You think this Diego might have been your father? That is, you can't say positively that he wasn't?"

"I can't say positively, no. But now I must go. You can come up to the house and talk about South America, if you want to."

She nodded pleasantly, and the car moved away. The innocent, ingenuous girl was soon to learn what modern news-gathering and dissemination means in this great Republic. But she rode on, happy in the thought that she and the Beaubien were formulating plans to save Mrs. Hawley-Crowles.

"We'll arrange it somehow," said the Beaubien, looking up from her papers when Carmen entered. "Go, dearie, and play the organ while I finish this. Then I will return home with you to have a talk with Mrs. Hawley-Crowles."

For hours the happy girl lingered at the beloved organ. The Beaubien at her desk below stopped often to listen. And often she would hastily brush away the tears, and plunge again into her papers. "I suppose I should have told Mrs. Hawley-Crowles," she said. "But I couldn't give her any hope. And even now it's very uncertain. Ames will yield! I'll force him to! He knows I can expose him! And yet," she reflected sadly, "who would believe me?" The morning papers lay still unread upon her table.

Late in the afternoon the Beaubien with Carmen entered her car and directed the chauffeur to drive to the Hawley-Crowles home. As they entered a main thoroughfare they heard the newsboys excitedly crying extras.

"Horrible suicide! Double extra! Big mining scandal! Society woman blows out brains! Double extra!"

Of a sudden a vague, unformed presentiment of impending evil came to the girl. She half rose, and clutched the Beaubien's hand. Then there flitted through her mind like a beam of light the words of the psalmist: "A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee." She sank back against the Beaubien's shoulder and closed her eyes.

The car rolled on. Presently the chauffeur turned and said something through the speaking tube.

"What!" cried the Beaubien, springing from the seat. "Merciful heaven! Stop and get a paper at once!" The chauffeur complied.

A loud cry escaped her as she took the sheet and glanced at the startling headlines. Mrs. James Hawley-Crowles, financially ruined, and hurled to disgrace from the pinnacle of social leadership by the awful exposure of the parentage of her ward, had been found in her bedroom, dead, with a revolver clasped in her cold hand.



CARMEN ARIZA



BOOK 4

Watchman, what of the night? The watchman said, The morning cometh.

—Isaiah.



CARMEN ARIZA

CHAPTER 1

The chill winds of another autumn swirled through the masonry-lined canons of the metropolis and sighed among the stark trees of its deserted parks. They caught up the tinted leaves that dropped from quivering branches and tossed them high, as Fate wantons with human hopes before she blows her icy breath upon them. They shrieked among the naked spars of the Cossack, drifting with her restless master far out upon the white-capped waves. They moaned in low-toned agony among the marble pillars of the Crowles mausoleum, where lay in pitying sleep the misguided woman whose gods of gold and tinsel had betrayed her.

On the outskirts of the Bronx, in a newly opened suburb, a slender girl, with books and papers under her arm, walked slowly against the sharp wind, holding her hat with her free hand, and talking rapidly to a young man who accompanied her. Toward them came an old negro, leaning upon a cane. As he stepped humbly aside to make room, the girl looked up. Then, without stopping, she slipped a few coins into his coat pocket as she passed.

The negro stood in dumb amazement. He was poor—his clothes were thin and worn—but he was not a beggar—he had asked nothing. The girl turned and threw back a smile to him. Then of a sudden there came into the old man's wrinkled, care-lined face such a look, such a comprehension of that love which knows neither Jew nor Gentile, Greek nor Barbarian, as would have caused even the Rabbis, at the cost of defilement, to pause and seek its heavenly meaning.

A few blocks farther on the strong wind sternly disputed the girl's right to proceed, and she turned with a merry laugh to her companion. But as she stood, the wind fell, leaving a heap of dead leaves about her feet. Glancing down, something caught her eye. She stooped and took up a two-dollar bill.

Her companion threw her a wondering look; but the girl made no comment. In silence they went on, until a few minutes more of brisk walking brought them to a newly built, stucco-coated bungalow. Running rapidly up the steps, the girl threw wide the door and called, "Mother dear!"

The Beaubien rose from her sewing to receive the hearty embrace. "Well, dearie?" she said, devouring the sparkling creature with eager eyes. "What luck?"

"We're registered! Lewis begins his law course at once, and I may take what I wish. And Mr. Hitt's coming to call to-night and bring a friend, a Mr. Haynerd, an editor. What's Jude got for supper? My! I'm starved."

The Beaubien drew the girl to her and kissed her again and again. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the man with a bantering twinkle in her eyes and said, "Don't you wish you could do that? But you can't."

"Yes he can, too, mother," asserted the girl.

Father Waite sighed. "I'm afraid it wouldn't look well," he said. "And, besides, I don't dare lose my heart to her."

With a final squeeze the girl tore herself from the Beaubien's reluctant arms and hurried to the little kitchen. "What is it to-night, Jude?" she demanded, catching the domestic in a vigorous embrace.

"Hist!" said Jude, holding up a finger. "It's a secret. I'm afraid you'd tell him."

"Not a word—I promise."

"Well, then, liver and bacon, with floating island," she whispered, very mysteriously.

"Oh, goody!" cried Carmen. "He just loves them both!"

Returning to the little parlor, Carmen encountered the fixed gaze of both the Beaubien and Father Waite. "Well?" she demanded, stopping and looking from one to the other.

"What about that two dollars?" said the Beaubien, in a tone of mock severity.

"Oh," laughed the girl, running to the woman and seating herself in the waiting lap, "he told, didn't he? Can't I ever trust you with a secret?" in a tone of rebuke, turning to the man.

"Surely," he replied, laughing; "and I should not have divulged this had I not seen in the incident something more than mere chance—something meant for us all."

Then he became serious. "I—I think I have seen the working of a stupendous mental law—am I not right?" addressing the girl. "You saw a need, and met it, unsolicited. You found your own in another's good."

The girl smiled at the Beaubien without replying. "What about it, dearie?" the latter asked tenderly.

"She need not answer," said Father Waite, "for we know. She but cast her bread upon the unfathomable ocean of love, and it returned to her, wondrously enriched."

"If you are going to talk about me, I shall not stay," declared Carmen, rising. "I'm going out to help Jude." And she departed for the kitchen, but not without leaving a smile for each of them as she went. And they understood.

The Beaubien and Father Waite remained some moments in silence. Then the woman spoke. "I am learning," she said. "She is the light that is guiding me. This little incident which you have just related is but a manifestation of the law of love by which she lives. She gave, unasked, and with no desire to be seen and advertised. It returned to her ten-fold. It is always so with her. There was no chance, no miracle, no luck about it. She herself did nothing. It was—it was—only the working of her beloved Christ-principle. Oh, Lewis! if we only knew—"

"We shall know, Madam!" declared the man vehemently. "Her secret is but the secret of Jesus himself, which was open to a world too dull to comprehend. Carmen shall teach us. And," his eyes brightening, "to that end I have been formulating a great plan. That's why I've asked Hitt to come here to-night. I have a scheme to propose. Remember, my dear friend, we are true searchers; and 'all things work together for good to them that love God.' Our love of truth and real good is so great that, like the consuming desire of the Jewish nation, it is bound to bring the Christ!"

* * * * *

For three months the Beaubien and Carmen had dwelt together in this lowly environment; and here they had found peace, the first that the tired woman had known since childhood. The sudden culmination of those mental forces which had ejected Carmen from society, crushed Ketchim and a score of others, and brought the deluded Mrs. Hawley-Crowles to a bitter end, had left the Beaubien with dulled sensibilities. Even Ames himself had been shocked into momentary abandonment of his relentless pursuit of humanity by the unanticipated denouement. But when he had sufficiently digested the newspaper accounts wherein were set forth in unsparing detail the base rumors of the girl's parentage and of her removal from a brothel before her sudden elevation to social heights, he rose in terrible wrath and prepared to hunt down to the death the perpetrators of the foul calumny. Whence had come this tale, which even the girl could not refute? From Lafelle? He had sailed for Europe—though but a day before. Ketchim? The man was cringing like a craven murderer in his cell, for none dared give him bail. Reed? Harris? Was it revenge for his own sharp move in regard to La Libertad? He would have given all he possessed to lay his heavy hands upon the guilty ones! The editors of the great newspapers, perhaps? Ames raged like a wounded lion in the office of every editor in the city. But they were perfectly safe, for the girl, although she told a straightforward story, could not say positively that the published statements concerning her were false. Yet, though few knew it, there were two city editors and several reporters who, in the days immediately following, found it convenient to resign their positions and leave the city before the awful wrath of the powerful man.

Then Ames turned upon his wife. And, after weeks of terror, that browbeaten woman, her hair whitening under the terrible persecution of her relentless master, fled secretly, with her terrified daughter, to England, whither the stupified Duke of Altern and his scandalized mother had betaken themselves immediately following the expose. Thereupon Ames's lawyer drew up a bill of divorce, alleging desertion, and laid it before the judge who fed from his master's hand.

Meantime, the devouring wrath of Ames swept like a prairie fire over the dry, withering stalks of the smart set. He vowed he would take Carmen and flaunt her in the faces of the miserable character-assassins who had sought her ruin! He swore he would support her with his untold millions and force society to acknowledge her its queen! He had it in his power to wreck the husband of every arrogant, supercilious dame in the entire clique! He commenced at once with the unfortunate Gannette. The latter, already tottering, soon fell before the subtle machinations of Hodson and his able cohorts. Then, as a telling example to the rest, Ames pursued him to the doors of the Lunacy Commission, and rested not until that body had condemned his victim to a living death in a state asylum. Kane, Fitch, and Weston fled to cover, and concentrated their guns upon their common enemy. The Beaubien alone stood out against him for three months. Her existence was death in life; but from the hour that she first read the newspaper intelligence regarding Carmen and the unfortunate Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, she hid the girl so completely that Ames was effectually balked in his attempts at drastic vindication in her behalf.

But this served only to intensify his anger, and he thereupon turned its full force upon the lone woman. Driven to desperation, she stood at length at bay and hurled at him her remaining weapon. Again the social set was rent, and this time by the report that the black cloud of bigamy hung over Ames. It was a fat season for the newspapers, and they made the most of it. As a result, several of them found themselves with libel suits on their hands. The Beaubien herself was confronted with a suit for defamation of character, and was obliged to testify before the judge whom Ames owned outright that she had but the latter's word for the charge, and that, years since, in a moment of maudlin sentimentalism, he had confessed to her that, as far as he knew, the wife of his youth was still living. The suit went against her. Ames then took his heavy toll, and retired within himself to sulk and plan future assaults and reprisals.

The Beaubien, crushed, broken, sick at heart, gathered up the scant remains of her once large fortune, disposed of her effects, and withdrew to the outskirts of the city. She would have left the country, but for the fact that the tangled state of her finances necessitated her constant presence in New York while her lawyers strove to bring order out of chaos and placate her raging persecutor. To flee meant complete abandonment of her every financial resource to Ames. And so, with the assistance of Father Waite and Elizabeth Wall, who placed themselves at once under her command, she took a little house, far from the scenes of her troubles, and quietly removed thither with Carmen.

One day shortly thereafter a woman knocked timidly at her door. Carmen saw the caller and fled into her arms. "It's Jude!" she cried joyously.

The woman had come to return the string of pearls which the girl had thrust into her hands on the night of the Charity Ball. Nobody knew she had them. She had not been able to bring herself to sell them. She had wanted—oh, she knew not what, excepting that she wanted to see again the girl whose image had haunted her since that eventful night when the strange child had wandered into her abandoned life. Yes, she would have given her testimony as to Carmen; but who would have believed her, a prostitute? And—but the radiant girl gathered her in her arms and would not let her go without a promise to return.

And return she did, many times. And each time there was a change in her. The Beaubien always forced upon her a little money and a promise to come back. It developed that Jude was cooking in a cheap down-town restaurant. "Why not for us, mother, if she will?" asked Carmen one day. And, though the sin-stained woman demurred and protested her unworthiness, yet the love that knew no evil drew her irresistibly, and she yielded at length, with her heart bursting.

Then, in her great joy, Carmen's glad cry echoed through the little house: "Oh, mother dear, we're free, we're free!"

But the Beaubien was not free. Night after night her sleepless pillow was wet with bitter tears of remorse, when the accusing angel stood before her and relentlessly revealed each act of shameful meanness, of cruel selfishness, of sordid immorality in her wasted life. And, lastly, the weight of her awful guilt in bringing about the destruction of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles lay upon her soul like a mountain. Oh, if she had only foreseen even a little of it! Oh, that Carmen had come to her before—or not at all! And yet she could not wish that she had never known the girl. Far from it! The day of judgment was bound to come. She saw that now. And, but for the comforting presence of that sweet child, she had long since become a raving maniac. It was Carmen who, in those first long nights of gnawing, corroding remorse, wound her soft arms about the Beaubien's neck, as she lay tossing in mental agony on her bed, and whispered the assurances of that infinite Love which said, "Behold, I make all things new!" It was Carmen who whispered to her of the everlasting arms beneath, and of the mercy reflected by him who, though on the cross, forgave mankind because of their pitiable ignorance. It is ignorance, always ignorance of what constitutes real good, that makes men seek it through wrong channels. The Beaubien had sought good—all the world does—but she had never known that God alone is good, and that men cannot find it until they reflect Him. And so she had "missed the mark." Oh, sinful, mesmerized world, ye shall find Me—the true good—only when ye seek Me with all your heart! And yet, "I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy transgressions for mine own sake, and will not remember thy sins." Only a God who is love could voice such a promise! And Carmen knew; and she hourly poured her great understanding of love into the empty heart of the stricken Beaubien.

Then at last came days of quiet, and planning for the future. The Beaubien would live—yes, but not for herself. Nay, that life had gone out forever, nor would mention of it pass her lips again. The Colombian revolution—her mendacious connivances with Ames—her sinful, impenitent life of gilded vice—aye, the door was now closed against that, absolutely and forever more. She had passed through the throes of a new birth; she had risen again from the bed of anguish; but she rose stripped of her worldly strength. Carmen was now the staff upon which she leaned.

And Carmen—what had been her thought when foul calumny laid its sooty touch upon her? What had been the working of her mind when that world which she had sought to illumine with the light of her own purity had cast her out?

When the blow fell the portals of her mind closed at once against every accusing thought, against every insidious suggestion of defeat, of loss, of dishonor. The arrows of malice, as well as those of self-pity and condemnation, snapped and fell, one by one, as they hurtled vainly against the whole armor of God wherewith the girl stood clad. Self sank into service; and she gathered the bewildered, suffering Beaubien into her arms as if she had been a child. She would have gone to Ames, too, had she been permitted—not to plead for mercy, but to offer the tender consolation and support which, despite the havoc he was committing, she knew he needed even more than the Beaubien herself.

"Paul had been a murderer," she often said, as she sat in the darkness alone with the suffering woman and held her trembling hand. "But he became the chief of apostles. Think of it! When the light came, he shut the door against the past. If he hadn't, dearest, he never could have done what he did. And you, and Mr. Ames, will have to do the same." And this the Beaubien could do, and did, after months of soul-racking struggle. But Ames sat in spiritual darkness, whipped by the foul brood of lust and revenge, knowing not that the mountainous wrath which he hourly heaped higher would some day fall, and bury him fathoms deep.

Throughout the crisis Father Waite had stood by them stanchly. And likewise had Elizabeth Wall. "I've just longed for some reasonable excuse to become a social outcast," the latter had said, as she was helping Carmen one day to pack her effects prior to removing from the Hawley-Crowles mansion. "I long for a hearthstone to which I can attach myself—"

"Then attach yourself to ours!" eagerly interrupted Carmen.

"I'll do it!" declared Miss Wall. "For I know that now you are really going to live—and I want to live as you will. Moreover—" She paused and smiled queerly at the girl—"I am quite in love with your hero, Father Waite, you know."

Harris, too, made a brief call before departing again for Denver. "I've got to hustle for a living now," he explained, "and it's me for the mountains once more! New York is no place for such a tender lamb as I. Oh, I've been well trimmed—but I know enough now to keep away from this burg!"

While he was yet speaking there came a loud ring at the front door of the little bungalow, followed immediately by the entrance of the manager of a down-town vaudeville house. He plunged at once into his errand. He would offer Carmen one hundred dollars a week, and a contract for six months, to appear twice daily in his theater. "She'll make a roar!" he asserted. "Heavens, Madam! but she did put it over the society ginks." And the Beaubien, shivering at the awful proposal, was glad Harris was there to lead the zealous theatrical man firmly to the door.

Lastly, came one Amos A. Hitt, gratuitously, to introduce himself as one who knew Cartagena and was likely to return there in the not distant future, where he would be glad to do what he might to remove the stain which had been laid upon the name of the fair girl. The genuineness of the man stood out so prominently that the Beaubien took him at once into her house, where he was made acquainted with Carmen.

"Oh," cried the girl, "Cartagena! Why, I wonder—do you know Padre Jose de Rincon?"

"A priest who once taught there in the University, many years ago? And who was sent up the river, to Simiti? Yes, well."

Then Carmen fell upon his neck; and there in that moment was begun a friendship that grew daily stronger, and in time bore richest fruit. It soon became known that Hitt was giving a course of lectures that fall in the University, covering the results of his archaeological explorations; so Carmen and Father Waite went often to hear him. And the long breaths of University atmosphere which the girl inhaled stimulated a desire for more. Besides, Father Waite had some time before announced his determination to study there that winter, as long as his meager funds would permit.

"I shall take up law," he had one day said. "It will open to me the door of the political arena, where there is such great need of real men, men who stand for human progress, patriotism, and morality. I shall seek office—not for itself, but for the good I can do, and the help I can be in a practical way to my fellow-men. I have a little money. I can work my way through."

Carmen shared the inspiration; and so she, too, with the Beaubien's permission, applied for admittance to the great halls of learning, and was accepted.

* * * * *

"And now," began Father Waite that evening, when Hitt and his friend had come, and, to the glad surprise of Carmen, Elizabeth Wall had driven up in her car to take the girl for a ride, but had yielded to the urgent invitation to join the little conference, "my plan, in which I invite you to join, is, briefly, to study this girl!"

Carmen's eyes opened wide, and her face portrayed blank amazement, as Father Waite stood pointing gravely to her. Nor were the others less astonished—all but the Beaubien. She nodded her head comprehendingly.

"Let me explain," Father Waite continued. "We are assembled here to-night as representatives, now or formerly, of very diversified lines of human thought. I will begin with myself. I have stood as the embodiment of Christly claims, as the active agent of one of the mightiest of human institutions, the ancient Christian Church. For years I have studied its accepted authorities and its all-inclusive assumptions, which embrace heaven, earth, and hell. For years I sought with sincere consecration to apply its precepts to the dire needs of humanity. I have traced its origin in the dim twilight of the Christian era and its progress down through the centuries, through heavy vicissitudes to absolute supremacy, on down through schisms and subsequent decline, to the present hour, when the great system seems to be gathering its forces for a life and death stand in this, the New World. I have known and associated with its dignitaries and its humble priests. I know the policies and motives underlying its quiet movements. I found it incompatible with human progress. And so I withdrew from it my allegiance."

Carmen's thought, as she listened, was busy with another whose experience had not been dissimilar, but about whom the human coils had been too tightly wound to be so easily broken.

"Our scholarly friend, Mr. Hitt," Father Waite went on, "represented the great protest against the abuses and corruption which permeated the system for which I stood. He, like myself, embodied the eternal warfare of the true believer against the heretic. Yet, without my churchly system, I was taught to believe, he and those who share his thought are damned. But, oh, strange anomaly! we both claimed the same divine Father, and accepted the Christly definition of Him as Love. We were two brothers of the same great family, yet calling each other anathema!"

He looked over at Hitt and smiled. "And to-day," he continued, "we brothers are humbly meeting on the common ground of failure—failure to understand the Christ, and to meet the needs of our fellow-men with our elaborate systems of theology."

"I heard another priest, years ago, make a similar confession," said Hitt reflectively. "I would he were here to-night!"

"He is here, in spirit," replied Father Waite; "for the same spirit of eager inquiry and humble desire for truth that animates us no doubt moved him. I have reason to think so," he added, looking at Carmen. "For this girl's spiritual development I believe to be very largely his work."

Hitt glanced at Carmen inquiringly. He knew but little as yet of her past association with the priest Jose.

"You and I, Mr. Hitt, represented the greatest systems of so-called Christian belief," pursued Father Waite. "Madam Beaubien, on the other hand, has represented the world that waits, as yet vainly, for redemption. We have not been able to afford it her. Yet—pardon my frankness in thus referring to you, Madam. It is only to benefit us all—that the means of redemption have been brought to her, we must now admit."

All turned and looked at Carmen. She started to speak, but Father Waite raised a detaining hand. "Let me proceed," he said. "Miss Wall represents the weariness of spirit and unrest abroad in the world to-day, the spirit that finds life not worth the while; and Mr. Haynerd voices the cynical disbelief, the agnosticism, of that great class who can not accept the childish tenets of our dogmatic systems of theology, yet who have nothing but the philosophy of stoicism or epicureanism to offer in substitute."