The church, a crude mission structure, stood some distance from the
trail. As we entered a priest came forward to meet us.
"Can I serve you?" he asked.
The voice was clear and sweet--the same voice that we had heard out
beyond the arroyo southeast of town, the same face, too, that we had
seen, with the big dark eyes full of fire. Involuntarily I recalled how
his hand had pointed to the west when he had pronounced a blessing that
day.
"Thank you, Father--" Rex began.
"Josef," the holy man said.
"Yes, thank you, Father Josef. We are just looking at things. No wish to
be rude, you know."
Rex lifted his cap and stood bareheaded in the priestly presence.
Father Josef smiled.
"Look here, then."
He led us up the aisle to where, cuddled down on a crude seat, a little
girl lay asleep. Her golden hair fell like a cloud about her face,
flowing over the edge of the seat almost to the floor. Her cheeks were
pink and warm, and her dimpled white hands were clasped together. I had
caught Mat Nivers napping many a time, but never in my life had I seen
anything half so sweet as this sleeping girl in the beauty of her
innocence. And I knew at a glance that this was the same girl whom I had
seen before at the door of the old Church of San Miguel.
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