CHAPTER 39

On the day that Carmen arrived in Cartagena, Rosendo staggered down

the Guamocó trail into Simití. On that same momentous day the flames

of war again flared up throughout the country. The Simití episode, in

which the President had interfered, brought Congress to the necessity

of action. A few days of fiery debate followed; then the noxious

measure was taken from the table and hastily enacted into a law.

But news travels slowly in Latin America, and some time was required

for this act of Congress to become generally known. The delay saw

Carmen through the jungle and down to the coast. There Reed lost no

time in transacting what business still remained for him in Cartagena,

and securing transportation for his party to New York.

Josè, the shadow of his former self, clung pitiably to Rosendo's hand,

imploring the constant repetition of the old man's narrative. Then

came Juan, flying to the door. He had seen and talked with the

returned _cargadores_. The girl had not come back with them. He

demanded to know why. He became wild. Neither Josè nor Rosendo could

calm him. At length it seemed wise to them both to tell him that she

had gone to the States with the Americans, and would return to Simití

no more.

The blow almost crushed the lad. He rushed about the town half dazed.

He gathered groups of companions about him and talked to them

excitedly. He threatened Rosendo and Josè. Then, evidently acting on

the advice of some cooler head, he rushed to his canoe and put off

across the lake toward the _caño_. He did not return for several days.

But when he did, the town knew that he had been to Bodega Central, and

that the country was aflame with war.

* * * * *

Reed's wife had not received Carmen in an amiable frame of mind. "For

heaven's sake, Charles," she had cried, turning from his embrace to

look at the wondering girl who stood behind him, "what have you

here?"

"Oh, that," he laughingly replied, "is only a little Indian I lassoed

back in the jungle." And, leaving the girl to the not very tender

graces of his wife, he hurried out to arrange for the return voyage.

At noon, when Harris appeared at Reed's room, Carmen rushed to him and

begged to be taken for a stroll through the town. Yielding to her

husband's insistence, Mrs. Reed had outfitted the girl, so that she

presented a more civilized appearance. At first Carmen had been

delighted with her new clothes. They were such, cheap as they were, as

she had never seen in Simití. But the shoes--"Ah, señora," she

pleaded, "do not make me wear them, they are so tight! I have never

worn shoes before." She was beginning her education in the conventions

and trammels of civilization.

As Carmen and Harris stood that afternoon in the public square, while

the girl gazed enraptured at an equestrian statue of Simón Bolívar, a

ragged little urchin approached and begged them to buy an afternoon

paper. Harris humored him and bade Carmen ask him his name.

"Rincón," the lad answered, drawing himself up proudly.

The girl started. "Rincón!" she repeated. "Why--where do you live?"

"In the Calle Lozano," he replied, wondering why these people seemed

interested in him.

Carmen translated the conversation to Harris. "Ask him who his father

is," suggested the latter.

"I do not know," replied the little fellow, shaking his head. "I never

saw him. He lives far away, up the great river, so Tia Catalina says.

And she says he is a priest."

The color suddenly left Carmen's cheeks. "Come with me to your home,"

she said, taking his hand.

The boy led them willingly through the winding streets to the little

upper room where, years before, he had first seen the light.

"Tia Catalina," he cried to the shabby woman who rose in amazement as

the visitors entered, "see, some strangers!"

Carmen lost no time, but went at once to the heart of her question.

"The little fellow's father--he is a Rincón? And--he lives up the

great river?"

The woman eyed her suspiciously for some moments without replying. But

the boy answered for her. "Yes, señorita," he said eagerly, "in

Simití. And his name--I am named for him--it is Josè. And I am going

to visit him some day. Tia Catalina said I should, no, Tia?"

Harris fumbled in his pocket and drew out some money, which he handed

to the woman. Her eyes lighted, and a cavernous smile spread over her

wrinkled face.

"_Ah, gracias, señor_," she murmured, bending over his hand; "we need

it. The boy's father has sent us but little of late."

Carmen's heart was fluttering wildly. "Tell me," she said in a cold

voice, "the boy's father is Padre Josè de Rincón, of Simití? You need

not fear to speak. We have just come from Simití, and have seen him.

We are leaving to-morrow for the States."

"Yes, señorita," replied the woman in a thin, cracking voice, now

completely disarmed of her suspicion. "The little fellow was born here

some seven years ago. Ah, well I remember the day! And his mother,

poor little lamb! She died the same night. But the good Padre has sent

us money ever since to care for him, until of late. Señorita, why is

it, think you, that he sends us so little now?"

"I--do--not--know," murmured Carmen abstractedly, scarce hearing the

woman. Then she turned to the boy. She bent over him and looked long

and wistfully into his eyes. He was a bright, handsome little fellow;

and though her heart was crushed, she took him into it. Swallowing the

lump which had come into her throat, she drew him to the window and

sat down, holding him before her.

"Your father--I know him--well. He is a--a good man. But--I did not

know--I never knew that he had a son." She stopped, choking.

"Tia Catalina says he is a fine man," proudly answered the boy.

"And she wants me to be a priest, too. But I am going to be a

bull-fighter."

"It is true, señorita," interposed the woman. "We cannot keep him

from the _arena_ now. He hangs about it all day, and about the

slaughter-house. We can hardly drag him back to his meals. What

can we do, señorita? But," with a touch of pride as she looked at him,

"if he becomes a bull-fighter, he will be the best of them all!"

Carmen turned again to the woman. Her question carried an appeal which

came from the depths of her soul. "Señora, is there no doubt--no doubt

that Padre Rincón is the father of the boy?"

"We think not, señorita. The lad's mother died in the good Padre's

arms. She would not say positively who was the boy's father. We

thought at first--it was some one else. Marcelena insisted on it to

her dying day. But now--now we know that it was Padre Josè. And he was

sent to Simití for it. But--ah, señorita, the little mother was so

beautiful, and so good! She--but, señorita, you are not leaving so

soon?"

Carmen had risen. "Yes, my good señora," she said wearily. "We must

now return to the hotel. But--here is more money for the boy. And,

señora, when I reach the States I will send you money every month for

him."

She took Harris's hand. "Come," she said simply, "I have seen enough

of the city."

* * * * *

At noon the next day a message from Bodega Central was put into the

hand of the acting-Bishop of Cartagena, as he sat in his study,

wrapped in the contemplation of certain papers before him. Hostilities

had begun along the Magdalena river the day before. The gates of

Cartagena were to be barricaded that day, for a boatload of rebels was

about to leave Barranquilla to storm the city and seize, if possible,

the customs. When he had read the message he uttered an exclamation.

Had not the Sister Superior of the Convent of Our Lady reported the

arrival of the daughter of Rosendo Ariza some days before? He seized

his hat and left the room.

Hastening to the Department of Police, he had a short interview with

the chief. Then that official despatched policemen to the office of

the steamship company, and to the dock. Their orders were to arrest

two Americans who were abducting a young girl. They returned a half

hour later with sheepish faces. "Your Excellency," they announced to

their chief, "the vessel sailed from the port an hour ago, with the

Americans and the girl aboard."

The announcement aroused in Wenceslas the fury of a tiger. Exacerbation

succeeded surprise; and that in turn gave way to a maddening thirst for

sanguinary vengeance. He hastened out and despatched a telegraphic

message to Bogotá. Then he returned to his study to await its effect.

Two days later a river steamer, impressed by the federal authorities,

stopped at the mouth of the Boque, and a squad of soldiers marched

over the unfrequented trail to Simití, where they arrived as night

fell. Their orders were to take into custody the priest, Josè de

Rincón, who was accused of complicity in the recent plot to overthrow

the existing government.

At the same time, on a vessel plowing its way into the North, a young

girl, awkwardly wearing her ill-fitting garments, hung over the rail

and gazed wistfully back at the Southern Cross. The tourists who saw

her heterogeneous attire laughed. But when they looked into her

beautiful, sad face their mirth died, and a tender pity stirred their

hearts.

CARMEN ARIZA

BOOK 3

And while within myself I trace

The greatness of some future race,

Aloof with hermit-eye I scan

The present works of present man,--

A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,

Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

--_Coleridge._

CARMEN ARIZA

CHAPTER 1

The blanket of wet fog which had hung over the harbor with such

exasperating tenacity lifted suddenly, late in the raw fall afternoon,

and revealed to the wondering eyes of the girl who stood alone at the

rail of the _Joachim_ a confusion of mountainous shadows, studded with

myriad points of light which glittered and shimmered beneath the gray

pall. Across the heaving waters came the dull, ominous breathing of

the metropolis. Clouds of heavy, black smoke wreathed about the bay.

Through it shrieking water craft darted and wriggled in endless

confusion. For two days the port of New York had been a bedlam of raw

sound, as the great sirens of the motionless vessels roared their

raucous warnings through the impenetrable veil which enveloped them.

Their noise had become acute torture to the impatient tourists, and

added bewilderment to the girl.

The transition from the primitive simplicity of her tropical home had

not been one of easy gradation, but a precipitate plunge. The

convulsion which ensued from the culmination of events long gathering

about little Simití had hurled her through the forest, down the

scalding river, and out upon the tossing ocean with such swiftness

that, as she now stood at the portal of a new world, she seemed to be

wandering through the mazes of an intricate dream. During the ocean

voyage she had kept aloof from the other passengers, partly because of

embarrassment, partly because of the dull pain at her heart as she

gazed, day after day, at the two visions which floated always before

her: one, the haggard face of the priest, when she tore herself from

his arms in far-off Simití; the other, that of the dark-faced,

white-haired old man who stood on the clayey river bank at wretched

Llano and watched her, with eager, straining eyes, until the winding

stream hid her from his earthly sight--forever. She wondered dully now

why she had left them, why she had so easily yielded to the influences

which had caused the separation. They might have fled to the jungle

and lived there in safety and seclusion. The malign influences which

beset them all in Simití never could have reached them in the

trackless forest. And yet, she knew that had not Rosendo and Josè held

out to her, almost to the last moment, assurances of a speedy reunion,

she would not have yielded to the pressure which they had exerted, and

to the allurements of life in the wonderful country to which they had

sent her. Her embarrassment on the boat was due largely to a sense of

awkwardness in the presence of women who, to her provincial sight,

seemed visions of beauty. To be sure, the priest had often shown her

pictures of the women of the outside world, and she had some idea of

their dress. But that such a vast difference existed between the

illustrations and the actualities, she had never for a moment

imagined. Their gowns, their jewels, their coiffures held her in

open-mouthed marvel, until Mrs. Reed, herself annoyed and embarrassed,

remanded her to her cabin and bade her learn the impropriety of such

manners.

Nor had the conduct of this lady throughout the voyage conduced to

Carmen's happiness. Mrs. Reed showed plainly that the girl was an

awkward embarrassment to her; that she was tolerated because of

reasons which pertained solely to her husband's business; and she took

pains to impress upon her fellow-travelers that, in view of the

perplexing servant problem, this unmannered creature was being taken

to the States to be trained as a maid, though, heaven knew! the

training would be arduous, and the result uncertain.

Reed, though measurably kind, gave Carmen scant attention. Harris

alone saved the girl from almost complete neglect. He walked the deck

with her, regardless of the smiles of the other passengers. He taught

her to play shuffle-board, checkers, and simple card games. He

conducted her over the boat and explained the intricate machinery and

the numberless wonders of the great craft. He sat with her out on the

deck at night and told her marvelous stories of his experiences in

frontier camps. And at the table he insisted that she occupy the seat

next to him, despite the protestations of the chief steward, who would

have placed her apart with the servants.

Carmen said little, but she clung to the man with an appeal which,

though mute, he nevertheless understood. At Kingston he took her on a

drive through the town, and bought post cards for her to send back to

Josè and Rosendo. It consoled her immeasurably when he glowingly

recounted the pleasure her loved ones would experience on receiving

these cards; and thereafter the girl daily devoted hours to the

preparation of additional ones to be posted in New York.

The lifting of the fog was the signal for a race among the stalled

craft to gain the harbor entrance. The enforced retention of the

vessels in the bay had resulted in much confusion in docking, and the

_Joachim_ was assigned to a pier not her own. The captain grumbled,

but had no choice. At the pier opposite there docked a huge liner from

Havre; and the two boats poured their swarming human freight into the

same shed. When the gang plank dropped, Harris took charge of Carmen,

while Reed and his wife preceded them ashore, the latter giving a

little scream of delight as she spied her sister and some friends with

a profusion of flowers awaiting her on the pier. She rushed joyfully

into their arms, while Reed hastened to his equipage with a customs

officer.

But as Harris and the bewildered Carmen pushed into the great crowd in

the shed, the absent-minded man suddenly remembered that he had left a

bundle of Panamá hats underneath his bunk. Dropping the girl's hand,

the impetuous fellow tore back up the gang plank and dived into the

boat.

For a moment Carmen, stood in confusion, bracing herself against

the swarming multitude, and clinging tenaciously to the small,

paper-wrapped bundle which she carried. Her first impulse was to

follow Harris. But the eager, belated crowd almost swept her off her

feet, and she turned again, drifting slowly with it toward the

distant exit. As she moved uncertainly, struggling the while to

prevent being crushed against the wall, she felt some one grasp her

hand.

"Oh, here you are!" sounded a gentle voice close to her ear. "Well,

how fortunate! We thought we had lost you! Come, they are waiting for

us up ahead."

Carmen looked up at the speaker. It was a woman, comely of feature,

and strikingly well dressed. The girl thought her beautiful. The

anxious fears of a moment before vanished. "Is he up there--Mr. Reed?"

she asked quickly.

"He? Oh, yes--Mr. Reed and the others are waiting for us. They sent me

back to find you. The automobiles came for you all; but I presume the

others have gone by this time. However, you and I will follow in mine.

I am Auntie."

"His aunt?" the girl asked eagerly, as the woman forced a way for them

through the mass of humanity.

"Yes, dear. And I am so glad to see you. I have heard all about you."

"Did he write to you--from Simití?"

"Yes, long letters. And he told all about his little girl. He said

your name was--"

"Carmen," interrupted the girl, with a great surge of gladness, for

here was one woman who did not avoid her.

"Yes, Carmen. It is a sweet name."

"But--Mr. Harris!" cried Carmen, suddenly stopping as she remembered.

"Oh, did he wait? Well, he will come. He knows where to find the

automobiles. I will leave word with the pier-master to tell him."

By this time they had wormed their way clear of the crowd and gained

the street. The woman, still retaining Carmen's hand, went directly to

a waiting automobile and pushed the unresisting girl through the open

door. Carmen had never seen a conveyance like this, and her thought

was instantly absorbed. She looked wonderingly for the horses. And

then, sinking into the luxurious cushions, she fell to speculating as

to how the thing was moved.

As the chauffeur reached back to close the door a policeman, who had

been eying the party since they came out of the shed, stepped up and

laid a hand on the car.

"Er--little girl," he said, looking in and addressing Carmen,

"_you--you know this lady, do you_?"

"Yes," replied Carmen, looking up confidently into the woman's smiling

face. "She is Auntie, Mr. Reed's aunt." She thought his blue uniform

and shining buttons and star gorgeously beautiful.

The officer stood hesitant a moment. Suspicion lurked in his eyes as

he looked at the woman and then back again at the girl.

"She is a little girl who came up from the South with my nephew, Mr.

Reed," the woman explained easily. "But I don't wonder you asked. I

will give you my card, if you wish."

Her air was supremely confident. The chauffeur, too, as he got out and

leisurely examined his engine, served further to disarm suspicion. The

officer raised up and removed his hand from the machine. The chauffeur

slowly mounted the box and threw on his lever. As the car moved gently

into the night the officer glanced at its number. "Hell!" he muttered,

turning away. "What's the use? The number would be changed anyway.

What's a fellow going to do in a case like this, I'd like to know--go

with 'em?"

Some minutes later, Harris, wild and disheveled, followed by Reed and

his party, emerged hurriedly into the street.

"What you looking for?" asked the officer, planting himself in front

of Harris, and becoming vaguely apprehensive.

"Girl!" sputtered Harris, his eyes protruding and his long arms pawing

the air. "Girl--so high--funny dress--big straw hat! Seen her?"

The officer gasped. "She's gone! Aunt took her just now in an auto!"

"Aunt!" yelled Harris. "She's got no aunt! She's from the jungle!"

For a moment they all stood silent, big-eyed and gaping.

"Look here, Mr. Officer," said Reed, interposing. "My name's Reed. The

girl came up from South America with me. Describe the woman--"

"Reed!" cried the policeman excitedly, his eyes lighting. "That's it!

Said she was your aunt!"

"Lord Harry! You great, blundering boob!" cried the distracted Harris,

menacing the confused officer. "And you let her nab the kid?"

Night had fallen, and a curious crowd was gathering around the

excited, noisy group. Reed quickly signaled a taxicab and hustled the

bewildered officer into it. "You, Harris, get the women folks home,

and wait for me! I'll go to central with this officer and report the

case!"

"Not I!" exclaimed Harris wildly. "I'm going to visit every dance hall

and dive in this bloomin' town before I go home! I'm going to find

that girl! And you, you blithering idiot," shaking a fist at the

officer, "you're going to lose your star for this!"

Meantime, the car, in which Carmen lay deep in the soft cushions, sped

through the dusk like a fell spirit. A confused jumble of shadows flew

past, and strange, unfamiliar noises rose from the animated streets.

The lights shimmered on the moist glass. It was confusing. The girl

ceased trying to read any meaning in it. It all fused into a blur; and

she closed her eyes and gave herself up to the novel sensations

stimulated by her first ride in a carriage propelled--she knew not

how.

At length came a creaking, a soft, skidding motion, and the big car

rolled up against a curb and stopped.

"We are home now," said the woman softly, as she descended and again

took Carmen's hand. They hurriedly mounted the white stone steps of a

tall, gloomy building and entered a door that seemed to open

noiselessly at their approach. A glare of light burst upon the

blinking eyes of the girl. A negro woman softly closed the door after

them. With a wondering glance, Carmen looked about her. In the room at

her right she caught a glimpse of women--beautiful, they seemed to

her--clad in loose, low-cut, gaily colored gowns. There were men

there, too; and some one sat at a piano playing sprightly music. She

had seen pianos like that in Cartagena, and on the boat, and they had

seemed to her things bewitched. In the room at the end of the hall men

and women were dancing on a floor that seemed of polished glass. Loud

talk, laughter, and singing floated through the rooms, and the air

was warm and stuffy, heavy with perfume. The odor reminded her of the

roses in her own little garden in Simití. It was all beautiful,

wonderful, fairy-like.

But she had only a moment for this appraisal. Seizing her hand again,

the woman whisked her up the flight of stairs before them and into a

warm, light room. Then, without speaking, she went out and closed the

door, leaving the girl alone.

Carmen sank into a great, upholstered rocking chair and tried to grasp

it all as she swayed dreamily back and forth. So this was his home,

Mr. Reed's. It was a palace! Like those Josè had described. She

wondered if Harris dwelt in a place of such heavenly beauty; for he

had said that he did not live with Reed. What would the stupid people

of Simití think could they see her now! She had never dreamed that

such marvels existed in the big world beyond her dreary, dusty, little

home town! Josè had told her much, ah, wonderful things! And so had

Harris. But how pitifully inadequate now seemed all their stories! She

still wondered what had made that carriage go in which she had come up

from the boat. And what would one like it cost? Would her interest in

La Libertad suffice to buy one? She speculated vaguely.

Then she rose and wandered about the room. She passed her hand over

the clean, white counterpane of the bed. "Oh," she murmured, "how

beautiful!" She went dreamily to the bureau and took up, one by one,

the toilet articles that lay there in neat array. "Oh, oh, oh!" she

murmured, again and again. She glanced into the clear mirror. The

little figure reflected there contrasted so oddly with the gorgeously

beautiful ones she had glimpsed below that she laughed aloud. Then she

went to the window and felt of the soft curtains. "It is heaven," she

murmured, facing about and sweeping the room, "just heaven! Oh, how

beautiful even the human mind can be! I never thought it, I never

thought it!"

Again she sat down in the big rocker and gave herself up to the charm

of her surroundings. Her glance fell upon a vase of flowers that stood

on a table near another window. She rose and went to them, bending

over to inhale their fragrance. "How strange!" she exclaimed, as she

felt them crackle in her fingers. Poor child, they were artificial!

But she would learn, ere long, that they fittingly symbolized the life

of the great city in which she was now adrift.

Time passed. She began to wonder why the woman did not return. Were

not the Reeds anxious to know of her safe arrival? But perhaps they

had visitors. Surely that was the case. It was a ball--but so

different from the simple, artless _baile_ of her native town. Stray

snatches of music drifted into the room from the piano below. It

stimulated a hunger for more. She went to the door, thinking to open

it a little and listen. The door was locked!

For a moment she stood reflecting. Then apprehension began to steal

over her. She went hastily, instinctively, to a window and raised the

curtain. There were iron bars in front of it! She remembered suddenly

that prison windows were like that. She hurried to the other. It was

likewise barred. Terror's clammy hand gripped at her heart. Then she

caught herself--and laughed. "How silly!" she exclaimed, sinking again

into the rocker. "God is everywhere--right here!"

At that moment the door opened noiselessly and a woman entered. She

was younger than the one who had met the boat. When she saw the girl

she uttered an exclamation. "Lord! where did you get those clothes?"

Carmen glanced down at her odd attire and then smiled up at the woman.

"Cartagena," she said simply. "Mrs. Reed bought them for me. But are

you her sister? You don't look like her."

The woman laughed, a sharp, unmusical laugh. The dry cosmetic

plastered thick upon her cheeks cracked. She was not beautiful like

the others, thought Carmen. Her cheeks were sunken, and her low-cut

gown revealed great, protruding collarbones. "Come," she said

abruptly, "get out of those rags and into something modern." She

opened a closet door and selected a gown from a number hanging there.

It was white, and there was a gay ribbon at the waist.

"It'll have to be pinned up," she commented to herself, holding it out

before her and regarding Carmen critically.

The girl's eyes danced. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "am I to wear that? How

beautiful! Did Mrs. Reed give it to me? And is there a party down

stairs?"

The woman returned no answer, but opened a bureau drawer and took from

it several other garments, which she threw upon a chair, together with

the dress.

"Into the whole lot of 'em," she said sharply, indicating the

garments. "And move lively, for supper's waitin' and there'll be

callers soon--gentlemen callers," she added, smiling grimly.

She turned and faced Carmen. Their eyes met. The woman stopped

abruptly and stood with arms akimbo, regarding the girl. Carmen gazed

up at her with a smile of happy, trustful assurance.

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

demanded hoarsely.

Carmen told her. She mentioned Simití, Padre Josè, and Rosendo. Her

voice quavered a little; but she brightened up and concluded: "And Mr.

Reed's Auntie, she met us--that is, me. Oh, isn't she a beautiful

lady!"

The woman seemed to be fascinated by the child's gaze. Then, suddenly,

as if something had given way under great strain, she cried: "For

God's sake, don't look at me that way! Who are you?" She dropped into

a chair and continued to stare at the girl.

"Well, I've told you," replied Carmen. "But," she continued, going

quickly to the woman and taking her hand, "you haven't told me your

name yet. And we are going to be such good friends, aren't we? Yes, we

are. And you are going to tell me all about this beautiful house, and

that wonderful carriage I came here in. What did make it go, anyway?

Do you ride often? Oh, I hope Mrs. Reed will take me out in it every

day!"

The woman's hand tightened over Carmen's. She seemed to struggle with

herself. Then, in a low voice:

"Your mother--is she living?"

"Madre Maria is," returned Carmen. "But my mother, my own real mother,

she died, long, long ago, on the banks of the great river. My father

left her, and she was trying to follow him. Then I was born--"

"The same old story!" muttered the woman fiercely. "I've been there,

girl, and know all about it. I followed the man--but it was my kid

that died! God, if I could have laid my hands on him! And now you have

come here--"

She stopped abruptly and swallowed hard. Carmen gently stole an arm

about her neck. "It isn't true," she murmured, laying her soft cheek

against the woman's painted one. "No one can desert us or harm us, for

_God is everywhere_. And no one really dies. We have got to know that.

Padre Josè said I had a message for the people up here; and now you

are the first one I've told it to. But that's it: God is everywhere.

And if we know that, why, nothing bad can ever happen to us. But you

didn't know it when your husband left you, did you?"

"Husband!" ejaculated the woman. Then she looked up into the girl's

deep, wondering eyes and checked herself. "Come," she said abruptly,

rising and still holding her hand. "Never mind the clothes." A grim

look settled over her features. "We'll go down to supper now as you

are."

Carmen's companion led her down the stairs and through the hall to a

brightly lighted room at the rear, where about a long table sat a half

dozen women. There were places for as many more, but they were

unoccupied. The cloth was white, the glass shone, the silver

sparkled. And the women, who glanced up at the girl, were clad in

gowns of such gorgeous hues as to make the child gasp in amazement.

Over all hung the warm, perfumed air that she had thought so delicious

when she had first entered the house.

The noisy chatter at once ceased. The woman led her to a chair next to

the one she herself took. Carmen looked around for the lady who had

met her at the boat. She was not there. The silence and the steady

scrutiny of the others began to embarrass her. "Where--where is

Auntie?" she asked timidly, looking up at her faded attendant.

A titter ran around the table. One of the women, who swayed slightly

in her chair, looked up stupidly. "Who's Auntie?" she muttered

thickly. A burst of laughter followed this remark, and Carmen sat down

in confusion.

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

attendant.

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

"She landed a queen this time, didn't she?" looking admiringly at

Carmen. "Gets me, how the old girl does it! What's your name, kiddo?"

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

room.

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

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

the group.

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

angel-face?"

The girl looked uncomprehendingly at her interlocutor.

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

begin?"

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

low voice.

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

"Simití!" echoed around the table. "New York? Ohio? Or Kansas?" A

burst of mirth punctuated the question.

"Do the women vote there?"

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

"Where is Simití, kidlet?"

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

Low exclamations of astonishment encircled the table, while the women

sat regarding the girl curiously.

"But," continued Carmen in a trembling voice, "where is Mrs. Reed?

And isn't Mr. Harris here? Why don't they come? Don't they know I am

here?"

She looked appealingly from one to another. Her beautiful face wore

such an expression of mingled fear, uncertainty, and helplessness as

to throw a hush upon the room. One of the women rose. "God!" she

muttered, "it's a shame!" She looked for a moment uncertainly into the

big, deep eyes of the girl, and then turned and hastily left the

room.

The silence which followed was broken by a pallid, painted creature at

the end of the table.

"What an old devil the Madam is! My God! One look into those eyes

would have been enough for me!"

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

she stay here?"

The woman addressed as Jude shook her head. "This is only a recruiting

station for the regular army. She'll go over to French Lucy's; and the

Madam will get a round price for the job."

"Old Lucy'll get rich off of her! But she needs the money. Ames owns

her house, too, doesn't he?"

"Sure thing!" replied Jude, brightening under the stimulus of her

wine. "He owns every house in this block, they say. Got long leases

for 'em all. And the rents--suffering Moses! The Madam rolls on the

floor and cusses for a week straight every time she pays hers. But

just the same, if you've ever noticed, the houses that Ames owns are

never raided by the coppers. Ames whacks up with the mayor and the

city hall gang and the chief of police. That means protection, and we

pay for it in high rents. But it's a lot better'n being swooped down

on by the cops every few weeks, ain't it? We know what we're expected

to pay, that way. And we never do when we keep handin' it out to the

cops."

"That's right," approved some one.

"It sure is. That's what the collector says. And he's got a new

collector, fellow from the Ketchim Realty Company. They're the old

man's agents now for his dive-houses. He can't get anybody else to

handle 'em, so the collector tells me."

"Belle Carey's place was pulled last night, I hear," said one of the

women, pushing back her plate and lighting a cigarette.

"Yes," returned Jude, "and why? Cause the house is owned by

Gannette--swell guy livin' up on Riverside Drive--and he don't divvy

with the city hall. Belle don't pay no such rent as the Madam does--at

least so old Lucy tells me."

The half-intoxicated woman down the table, who had stirred their

laughter a few minutes before, now roused up heavily. "Ol' Lucy--huh!

Used to work for her m'self. Caught a pippin for her once--right off

the train--jus' like this li'l hussy. Went to th' depot in a hack. Saw

th' li'l kid comin' an' pretended to faint. Li'l kid run to me an'

asked could she help. Got her to see me safe home--tee! hee! She's

workin' f'r ol' Lucy yet, sound's a dollar."

She fixed her bleared eyes upon Carmen and lapsed back into her former

state of sodden stupidity.

The girl rose hastily from her chair. The policeman's words at the

pier were floating confusedly through her thought. The strange talk of

these women increased the confusion. Perhaps a mistake had been made.

She turned beseechingly to Jude. "Isn't this--Mr. Reed's house?" she

asked.

Another of the women got up hurriedly and left the table. "I haven't

the nerve for another sob-scene," she commented as she went out.

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

another.

Jude reached out and seized her hand tightly. "Pleasant job for me!"

she commented ironically, looking at the others. Then, to Carmen:

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

"Oh--then--then it was a mistake?" The girl turned her great, yearning

eyes upon the woman. Jude shrank under them. "Sit down, and finish

your supper," she said harshly, pulling the girl toward the chair.

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

The maudlin woman down the table chuckled thickly. The negro waitress

went quickly out and closed the door. Jude rose, still holding the

girl's hand. "Come up stairs with me," she said, leading her away.

"Poor old Jude!" commented one of the women, when the two had left the

room. "She's about all in. This sort of business is getting her nerve.

But she's housekeeper, and that's part of her job. And--the poor

little kid! But ain't she a beauty!"

Jude took the girl into her own room and locked the door. Then she

sank wearily into a chair. "God!" she cried, "I'm sick of this--sick

of the whole thing!"

Carmen went quickly to her. "Don't!" she said. "Don't! It was all a

mistake, and we can go."

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

"Why, you said this was a hotel--"

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

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

face.

"Now listen," said Jude, bracing herself, "I've got something to tell

you. You have been--good God! I can't--I can't! For God's sake, child,

don't look at me that way! Who are you? Where do you come from?"

"I told you," replied Carmen quietly.

"Your face looks as if you had come down from the sky. But if you did,

and if you believe in a God, you had better pray to Him now!"

"Why--I am not afraid. God is everywhere--right here. I was afraid--a

little--at first. But not now. When we stop and just know that we love

everybody, and that everybody really loves us, why, we can't be afraid

any more, can we?"

The woman looked up at the child in blank amazement. Love! That

warped, twisted word conveyed no meaning to her. And God--it was only

a convenient execrative. But--what was it that looked out from that

strange girl's eyes? What was it that held her fascinated there? What

was emerging from those unfathomable depths, twining itself about her

withered heart and expanding her black, shrunken soul? Whence came

that beautiful, white life that she was going to blast? And could she,

after all? Then what stayed her now?

"Look here," she cried sharply, "tell me again all about yourself, and

about your friends and family down south, and what it was that the

Madam said to you! And be quick!"

Carmen sat down at her feet, and taking her hand, went again over the

story. As the child talked, the woman's hard eyes widened, and now and

then a big tear rolled down the painted cheek. Her thought began to

stray back, far back, along the wreck-strewn path over which she

herself had come. At last in the dim haze she saw again the little New

England farm, and her father, stern, but honest and respected,

trudging behind the plow. In the cottage she saw her white-haired

mother, every lineament bespeaking her Puritan origin, hovering over

her little household like a benediction. Then night fell, swiftly as

the eagle swoops down upon its prey, and she awoke from a terrible

dream, stained, abandoned, lost--and seared with a foul oath to drag

down to her own level every innocent girl upon whom her hands might

thereafter fall!

"And I have just had to know," Carmen concluded, "every minute since I

left Simití, that God was everywhere, and that He would not let any

harm come to me. But when we really know that, why, the way _always_

opens. For that's prayer, right prayer; the kind that Jesus taught."

The woman sat staring at the girl, an expression of utter blankness

upon her pallid face. Prayer! Oh, yes, she had been taught to pray.

Well she remembered, though the memory now cut like a knife, how she

knelt at her beautiful mother's knee and asked the good Father to

bless and protect them all, even to the beloved doll that she hugged

to her little bosom. But God had never heard her petitions, innocent

though she was. And He had let her fall, even with a prayer on her

lips, into the black pit!

A loud sound of male voices and a stamping of feet rose from below.

The woman sprang to the door and stood listening. "It's the boys from

the college!" she cried in a hoarse whisper.

She turned and stood hesitant for a moment, as if striving to

formulate a plan. A look of fierce determination came into her face.

She went to the bureau and took from the drawers several articles,

which she hastily thrust into the pocket of her dress.

"Now," she said, turning to Carmen and speaking in a low, strained

voice, "you do just as I say. Bring your bundle. And for God's sake

don't speak!"

Leaving the light burning, she stepped quickly out with Carmen and

locked the door after her. Then, bidding the girl wait, she slipped

softly down the hall and locked the door of the room to which the girl

had first been taken. Both keys she dropped into her pocket. "Now

follow me," she said.

Laughter and music floated up from below, mingled with the clink of

glasses. The air was heavy with perfume and tobacco smoke. A door near

them opened, and a sound of voices issued. The woman pulled Carmen

into a closet until the hall was again quiet. Then she hurried on to

another door which she entered, dragging the girl with her. Again she

locked the door after her. Groping through the darkness, she reached a

window, across which stood a hinged iron grating, secured with a

padlock. The woman fumbled among her keys and unfastened this.

Swinging it wide, and opening the window beyond, she bade the girl

precede her cautiously.

"It's a fire-escape," she explained briefly. She reached through the

window grating and fastened the padlock; then closed the window; and

quickly descended with the girl to the ground below.

Pausing a moment to get her breath, she seized Carmen's hand and crept

swiftly around the big house and into a dark alley. There she stopped

to throw over her shoulders a light shawl which she had taken from the

bureau. Then she hurried on.

Their course lay through the muddy alley for several blocks. When they

emerged they were in a dimly lighted cross street. The air was chill,

and the thinly clad woman shivered. Carmen, fresh from the tropics,

felt the contrast keenly. A few moments' rapid walking down the street

brought them to a large building of yellow brick, surrounded by a high

board fence. The woman unfastened the gate and hurried up to the door,

over which, by the feeble light of the street lamp, Carmen read, "The

Little Sisters of the Poor."

A black-robed woman admitted them and went to summon the Sister

Superior. Carmen marveled at her strange attire. A moment later they

were silently ushered into an adjoining room, where a tall woman,

similarly dressed, awaited them.

"Sister," said Jude excitedly, "here's a little kid--you got to care

for her until she finds her friends!"

The Sister Superior instantly divined the status of the woman. "Let

the child wait here a moment," she said, "and you come with me and

tell your story. It would be better that she should not hear."

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

chair.

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

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

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

"Then you will stay here until--"

"No, no! I have friends--others like myself--I will go to them. I--I

couldn't stay here--with her," nodding toward the girl. "But--you will

take care of her?"

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

Jude looked at Carmen for a moment. She made as if she would speak.

Then she turned abruptly and went swiftly out into the chill night.

"Come," said the Sister to Carmen, extending a hand. "Poor little

thing!" she murmured as they mounted the stairs. "Poor little thing!"

CHAPTER 2

Carmen was astir next morning long before the rising-bell sounded its

shrill summons through the long corridors. When she opened her eyes

she gazed at the ceiling above in perplexity. She still seemed to feel

the tossing motion of the boat, and half believed the bell to be the

call to the table, where she should again hear the cheery voice of

Harris and meet the tolerant smile of Mrs. Reed. Then a rush of

memories swept her, and her heart went down in the flood. She was

alone in a great foreign city! She turned her face to the pillow, and

for a moment a sob shook her. Then she reached under the pillow and

drew out the little Bible, which she had taken from her bundle and

placed there when the Sister left her the night before. The book fell

open to Isaiah, and she read aloud:

"I the Lord have called thee in righteousness, and will hold thine

hand, and will keep thee, and give thee for a covenant of the

people, for a light of the Gentiles."

She snapped the book shut and quickly rose. "That means me," she said

firmly. "Padre Josè said I had a message for the world; and now I

am to tell it to these people up here. God has called me in

righteousness. That means, He has called me to do _right thinking_.

And I am to tell these people how to think right. They don't know

as yet."

Suddenly her thought reverted to Cartagena, and to the sturdy little

lad who had so proudly claimed the name of Rincón. For a moment she

stood still. Then she burst into tears and threw herself back upon the

bed.

But she did not lie there long. "I must think only God's thoughts,"

she said, struggling to her feet and checking her grief. "If it is

right for the little boy to be his son, then I must want it to be so.

I _must_ want only the right--I have _got_ to want it! And if it is

not right now, then God will make it so. It is all in His hands, and I

must not think of it any more, unless I think right thoughts."

She dressed herself quickly, but did not put on the shoes. "I simply

can not wear these things," she mourned, looking at them dubiously;

"and I do not believe the woman will make me. I wonder why the other

woman called her Sister. Why did she wear that ugly black bonnet? And

why was I hurried away from that hotel? It was so much pleasanter

there, so bright and warm; and here it is so cold." She shivered as

she buttoned her thin dress. "But," she continued, "I have got to go

out now and find Mr. Reed and Mr. Harris--I have just _got_ to find

them--and to-day! But, oh, this city is so much larger than Simití!"

She shook her head in perplexity as she put the Bible back again in

the bundle, where lay the title papers to La Libertad and her mother's

little locket, which Rosendo had given her that last morning in

Simití. The latter she drew out and regarded wistfully for some

moments. "I haven't any father or mother but God," she murmured. "But

He is both father and mother to me now." With a little sigh she tied

up the bundle again. Holding it in one hand and carrying the much

despised shoes in the other, she left the cheerless room and started

down the long, cold hall.

When she reached the stairway leading to the floor below she stopped

abruptly. "Anita's babe!" she exclaimed half-aloud. "I have been

thinking only of myself. It is _not_ blind! It sees! It sees as God

sees! What is it that the Bible says?--'And I will bring them by a way

that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not

known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things

straight.' I must know that--always! And Padre Josè said he would

remember it, too."

Again she choked back the tears which surged up at the remembrance of

the priest, and, bracing herself, hastily descended the stairs,

murmuring at every step, "God is everywhere--right here!"

At the far end of the lower hall she saw, through an open door, a

number of elderly people sitting at long tables. Toward them she

made her way. When she reached the door, she stopped and peered

curiously within. A murmur of astonishment rose from the inmates

when they caught sight of the quaint object in the doorway, standing

uncertainly, with her shoes in one hand, the awkwardly tied bundle in

the other, and garbed in the chaotic attire so hastily procured for

her in Cartagena.

A Sister came quickly forward and, taking the girl's hand, led her

into a smaller adjoining room, where sat the Sister Superior at

breakfast. The latter greeted the child gently and bade her be seated

at the table. Carmen dropped into a chair and sat staring in naïve

wonder.

"Well," began the Sister at length, "eat your breakfast quickly. This

is Sunday, you know, and Mass will be said in the chapel in half an

hour. You look frightened. I don't wonder. But you are with friends

here, little girl. What is your name?"

Carmen quickly recovered her spirits, and her nimble tongue its wonted

flexibility. Without further invitation or preface she entered at once

upon a lively description of her wonderful journey through the jungle,

the subsequent ocean voyage, and the mishap at the pier, and concluded

with the cryptical remark: "And, you know, Señora, it is all just as

Padre Josè said, only a series of states of consciousness, after

all!"

The Sister stared blankly at the beaming child. What manner of being

was this that had been so strangely wafted into these sacred precincts

on the night breeze! The abandoned woman who had brought her there,

the Sister remembered, had dropped an equally cryptical remark--"She's

chock full of religion."

But gratitude quickly mastered her wonder, and the woman, pondering

the child's dramatic recital, murmured a sincere, "The Virgin be

praised!"

"Oh," said Carmen, looking up quickly as she caught the words, "you

people up here talk just like those in Simití. But Padre Josè said you

didn't know, either. You ought to, though, for you have had so many

more ad--advantages than we have. Señora, there are many big, clumsy

words in the English language, aren't there? But I love it just the

same. So did Padre Josè. We used to speak it all the time during the

last years we were together. He said it seemed easier to talk about

God in that language than in any other. Do you find it so, Señora?"

"What do you mean, child?" asked the puzzled Sister. "And who is this

Josè that you talk so much about?"

"He--taught me--in Simití. He is the priest there."

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

things!"

"Oh, no!" returned Carmen quickly, "he just taught me the truth. He

didn't tell me about the queer things in the world, for he said they

were not real."

Again the Sister stared at the girl in dumb amazement. But the child's

thought had strayed to other topics. "Isn't it cold up here!" she

exclaimed, shivering and drawing her dress about her. "I guess I'll

have to put on these shoes to keep my feet warm."

"Certainly, child, put them on!" exclaimed the Sister. "Didn't you

wear shoes in your country?"

"No," replied Carmen, tugging and straining at the shoes; "I didn't

wear much of anything, it was so warm. Oh, it is beautiful down there,

Señora, so beautiful and warm in Simití!" She sighed, and her eyes

filled with tears. But she brushed them away and smiled bravely up at

the Sister. "I've come here because it is right," she said with a firm

nod of her head. "Padre Josè said I had a message for you. He said you

didn't know much about God up here. Why, I don't know much of anything

else!" She laughed a happy little laugh as she said this. Then she

went on briskly:

"You know, Señora, Padre Josè isn't really a priest. But he said he

had to stay in the Church in order to teach me. I never could

understand why. I am sure he just thought wrong about it. But, anyway,

he will not have to be a priest any more, now that I have gone, will

he? You know, Don Jorge said priests were a bad lot; but that isn't

so, for there are many good priests, aren't there? Yes, there are.

Only, they don't understand, either. Why, Señora," she exclaimed,

suddenly remembering the Sister's previous injunction, "is this a

church? You said there would be Mass in the chapel--"

"No," replied the Sister, still studying the girl attentively, while

her manner became more severe; "this is a home for old people, a

charitable institution."

"Oh," replied Carmen, with a very vague idea of what that meant.

"Well," her face alight and her eyes dancing, "I don't belong here

then, do I? I am never going to be old," she meditated. "Why, God

never grows old! And we are His children, you know. The Bible says we

are made in His image and likeness. Well, if that is so, how can we

ever grow old? Just think of God hobbling around in heaven with a cane

and saying: 'Well, I'm getting old now! I'll soon be dying!' Isn't

that awful! We wouldn't grow old and die if it wasn't for our wrong

way of thinking, would we? When we think His thoughts, why, we will be

like Him. But not until then. Padre Josè says this, and he knows it is

true--only, he seems to have a hard time proving it. But, Señora, we

have all got to prove it, some time, every one of us. And then there

will not be any places like this for old people--people who still

believe that two and two are seven, you know. And that's my message."

The woman looked at her blankly; but the girl rambled on. "Padre Josè

sometimes talked of the charitable institutions out in the world, and

he always said that charity was a crime against the people. And he was

right, for that is just the way Jesus looked at it, isn't it? Jesus

did not give money to beggars, but he did better, he healed them of

the bad state of mind that was making them poor and sick. Why don't

the priests do that? Can you heal the sick? Jesus, when he taught,

first said a thing, and then he turned right around and proved it. Now

do you do that? I try to. I've tried it all my life. And, why, Señora,

I've had thousands of proofs!"

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

continued:

"You know, Señora, it is just as wicked to be sick and poor as it is

to tell a lie, because being sick and poor is just the ex--the

ex-ter-nal-i-zation of our thought; and such thought is not from God;

and so to hold such thoughts and to believe them real is to believe in

power apart from God. It is having other gods than the one God; and

that is breaking the very first Commandment, isn't it? Yes, it is; and

you can prove it, just as you can prove the principles in mathematics.

Señora, do you know anything about mathematics?"

The astonished woman made an involuntary sign of negation.

"Oh, Señora," cried the enthusiastic girl, "the things that Jesus

taught can be proved just as easily as we prove the rules in

mathematics! Why not? for they are truth, and all truth can be

demonstrated, you know. You know, Señora, God is everywhere--not only

in heaven, but right here where we are. Heaven, Padre Josè used to say

so often, is only a perfect state of mind; and so it is, isn't it?

God, you know, is mind. And when we reflect Him perfectly, why, we

will be in heaven. Isn't it simple? But," she went on after catching

her breath, "we can't reflect Him as long as we believe evil to be

real and powerful. Evil isn't anything. It is just zero, nothing--"

"I've heard that before," interrupted the woman, recovering somewhat

from her surprise. "But I think that before you get out of New York

you will reverse that idea. There's a pretty fair amount of evil here,

and it is quite real, we find."

"But it isn't!" cried Carmen. "If it is real, then God made it. It

seems real to you--but that is only because you give it reality in

your consciousness. You believe it real, and so it becomes to you."

"Well," said the woman dryly, "on that basis I think the same may be

said of good, too."

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

"There," interrupted the Sister coldly, holding up an admonitory hand,

"we are not going to discuss the foolish theological notions which

that fallen priest put into your poor little head. Finish your

breakfast."

The child looked at the woman in mute protest. Josè a fallen priest!

Would these people up here so regard him? It was a new thought, and

one that she would not accept.

"Señora," she began again, after a brief interval, "Padre Josè is a

good man, even the human Padre Josè. And he is trying to solve his

problem and know God. And he is trying to know himself, not as other

people think they know him, but as God knows him, and as I have always

tried to know him. You have no right to judge him--and, anyway, you

are not judging him, but only your wrong idea of him. And that," she

said softly, "is nothing."

The Sister did not answer. She was beginning to feel the spell of

those great brown eyes, that soft, rich voice, and the sparkling

expression of innocence, purity, and calm assurance that bubbled from

those red lips. And she was losing herself in contemplation of the

girl's luxuriant beauty, whose rich profusion her strange, foreign

attire could not disguise.

"Señora," said Carmen suddenly, "the people on the boat laughed at my

clothes. But I don't think them half as funny as that great black

bonnet you are wearing. Why do you wear it? I never saw one until I

was brought here."

It was said innocently, and with no thought of offense. But the woman

instantly roused from her meditation and assumed an attitude of

severe dignity. "Finish your breakfast," she commanded sharply. "And

remember after this that children's manners here are not those of your

country."

The girl fell quiet under the rebuke, and the meal ended in silence.

As they were rising from the table a cheery voice came from the outer

room, and presently a priest looked in.

"Good morning, Sister," he cried heartily. "Well, who's this?" as his

eyes fell upon Carmen. He was a young man, apparently still in the

twenties, of athletic build, inclined rather to stoutness, and with a

round, shining face that radiated health and good nature.

The Sister quietly returned his cordial greeting. "It is a little

waif," she said in answer to his query, "who strayed in here last

night."

"Aha," said the priest, "another derelict! And will you send her to

the orphanage?"

"I'm afraid if I do the little heretic will corrupt all the other

children," replied the Sister. "Father," she continued seriously, "I

want you to examine this child, and then tell me what you think should

be done with her."

"What is it--health?" asked the priest, studying the girl.

"No," replied the Sister; "but another priest has gone wrong, and

this," pointing to Carmen, "is the result of his pernicious

teachings."

The priest did not reply for some moments. Then he sighed wearily.

"Very well, Sister," he said in a low voice. "I will talk with her

after the service." He seemed suddenly to have lost his cheerfulness,

as he continued to converse with the woman on matters pertaining to

the institution.

Carmen, wondering and receptive, took the place assigned to her in the

chapel and sat quietly through the service. She had often seen Josè

celebrate Mass in the rude little church in Simití, but with no such

elaboration as she witnessed here. Once or twice she joined in the

responses, not with any thought of worship, but rather to give vent,

even if slight, to the impelling desire to hear her own musical voice.

She thought as she did so that the priest looked in her direction. She

thought others looked at her attentively at the same time. But they

had all stared at her, for that matter, and she had felt confused and

embarrassed under their searching scrutiny. Yet the old people

attracted her peculiarly. Never had she seen so many at one time. And

never, she thought, had she seen such physical decrepitude and

helplessness. And then she fell to wondering what they were all there

for, and what they got out of the service. Did the Mass mean anything

to them? Did they believe that thereby their sins were atoned? Did

they believe that that priest was really changing the wafer and wine

into flesh and blood? She recalled much that Josè had told her about

the people up in the States. They were not so different, mentally,

from her own, after all.

The Host had been elevated. The people, still gossiping cheerfully,

had prostrated themselves before it. The sermon had been short, for

the old people waxed impatient at long discourses. Then the priest

descended from the pulpit and came to Carmen. "Now, little girl," he

said, seating himself beside her, "tell me all about yourself, who you

are, where you come from, and what you have been taught. And do not be

afraid. I am your friend." Carmen smiled up at him; then plunged into

her narrative.

It was two hours later when the Sister Superior looked in and saw the

priest and girl still sitting in earnest conversation. She stood

listening. "But," she heard the priest say, "you tell me that this

Father Josè taught you these things?"

"He taught me English, and French, and German. He taught me

mathematics. And he taught me all I know of history, and of the

world," the girl replied.

"Yes, yes," the priest went on hurriedly; "but these other things,

these religious and philosophical notions, who taught you these?"

The Sister drew closer and strained her ears to hear.

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

The priest's head sank upon his breast. He reached out and laid a hand

on hers. "I believe you," he said, in a voice scarcely audible. "I

believe you--for we do not teach such things."

The girl looked up with luminous eyes. "Then," she said quizzically,

"you are not really a priest."

"Father Waite!" The Sister's voice rang sternly through the quiet

chapel. The priest started to his feet in confusion. "The dinner-bell

will ring in a few minutes," continued the Sister, regarding the man

severely.

"Ah, true," he murmured, hastily glancing at the clock. "The time

passed so rapidly--a--a--this girl--"

"Leave the girl to me," replied the Sister coldly. "Unless," she

added, "you consider her deranged. Coming from that hot country

suddenly into this cold climate might--"

"No, no," interrupted the priest hastily; "she seems uncommonly strong

mentally. She has some notions that are a--somewhat different from

ours--that is--but I will come and have a further talk with her."

He raised his hand in silent benediction, while the Sister bowed her

head stiffly. Then, as if loath to take his eyes from the girl, he

turned and went slowly out.

"Come," said the woman sharply. Carmen followed her out into the hall

and down a flight of steps to the kitchen below.

"Katherine," said the Sister Superior, addressing an elderly,

white-haired Sister who seemed to be in charge of the culinary

department, "put this girl to work. Let her eat with you and sleep in

your room. And see if you can't work some of the foolish notions out

of her head."

CHAPTER 3

"Get some o' th' foolish notions out of your head, is it? Och, puir

bairn, wid yer swate face an' that hivenly hair, it's welcome ye air

to yer notions! But, hist! Ye have talked too brash to the Sister

Superior. Ye air that innocent, puir thing! But, mind your tongue,

honey. Tell your funny notions to old Katie, an' they'll be safe as

the soul of Saint Patrick; but keep mum before the others, honey."

"But, Señora, don't they want to know the truth up here?" There was a

note of appeal in the quavering voice.

"Now listen, honey; don't call me sich heathen names. Call me Sister.

I'm no Señora, whativer that may be. And as for wantin' to know the

truth, God bless ye, honey! th' good Fathers know it all now."

"They don't, Señ--Sister!"

"Well, thin, they don't--an' mebby I'm not so far from agreein' wid

ye. But, och, it's dead beat I am, after the Sunday's work! But ye air

a right smart little helper, honey--only, ye don't belong in th'

kitchen."

"Señ--I mean, Sister--"

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

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

"No, honey, it's few I know outside these walls. But ye can put up a

bit of a prayer when ye turn in to-night. An' we'd best be makin' for

th' bed, too, darlin', for we've a hard day's work to-morrow."

It was Carmen's second night in New York, and as the girl silently

followed the puffing old woman up the several long, dark flights of

stairs to the little, cheerless room under the eaves, it seemed to her

that her brain must fly apart with the pressure of its mental

accumulation. The great building in which she was now sheltered, the

kitchen, with its marvels of equipment, gas stoves, electric lights,

annunciators, and a thousand other equally wonderful appliances which

the human mind has developed for its service and comfort, held her

fascinated, despite her situation, while she swelled with questions

she dared not ask. Notwithstanding the anxiety which she had not

wholly suppressed, her curiosity, naïve, eager, and insatiable, rose

mountain high. Sister Katherine had been kind to her, had received her

with open arms, and given her light tasks to perform. And many times

during the long afternoon the old woman had relaxed entirely from her

assumed brusqueness and stooped to lay a large, red hand gently upon

the brown curls, or to imprint a resounding kiss upon the flushed

cheek. Now, as night was settling down over the great, roaring city,

the woman took the homeless waif into her big heart and wrapped her in

a love that, roughly expressed, was yet none the less tender and

sincere.

"Ye can ask the Virgin, honey, to send ye to yer frinds," said the

woman, as they sat in the gloaming before the window and looked out

over the kindling lights of the city.

"What good would that do, Sister?"

"Not much, I guess, honey," answered the woman frankly. "Troth, an'

I've asked her fer iverything in my time, from diamonds to a husband,

an' she landed me in a convint! But I ain't complainin'."

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

"Faith, I asked in ivery way I knew how! An' whin I had th' carbuncle

on me neck I yelled at her! Sure she may have answered me prayer, fer

th' whoop I gave busted the carbuncle, an' I got well. Ye nivir kin

tell, honey. An' so I ain't complainin'."

"But, Sis--I can't call you Sister!" pleaded the girl, going to the

woman and twining her arms about her neck.

"Och, honey darlin'"--tears started from the old woman's eyes and

rolled down her wrinkled cheeks--"honey darlin', call me Katie, just

old Katie. Och, Holy Virgin, if I could have had a home, an' a

beautiful daughter like you--!" She clasped the girl in her great arms

and held her tightly.

"Katie, when you pray you must pray knowing that God has already given

you what you need, and that there is nothing that can keep you from

seeing it."

The woman wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "An' so, darlin', if I want

diamonds I must know that I have 'em, is it that, honey?"

"You dear thing!" murmured Carmen, drawing closer, and laying her soft

cheek against the leathery visage of the old woman.

"Say that again, honey--och, say it again! It's words, darlin', that's

nivir been said to old Katie!"

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

"Kind! Och, ivirybody's kind to me, honey! But nobody has ivir loved

me--that way. The good Lord made me a fright, honey--ain't ye noticed?

I've a face like an owl. An' they told me from th' cradle up I'd nivir

land a man. An' I didn't, honey; they all ran from me--an' so I become

a bride o' th' Church. But I ain't complainin'."

"But, Katie, the face is nothing. Why, your heart is as big--as big as

the whole world! I hadn't been with you an hour before I knew that.

And, Katie dear, I love you."

"Och, darlin'," murmured the woman, "sure th' Virgin be praised fer

sendin' ye to me, a lonely old woman!"

"It was not the Virgin, Katie, but God who brought me here," said the

girl gently, as she caressed the old Sister's cheek.

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

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

"Troth, child, she has th' same power as God! Don't we pray to her,

an' she prays to th' good God to save us? Don't she have influence

with Him?"

"No, Katie, no. There is no person or thing that persuades God to be

good to His children. There is nothing that influences Him. He is

infinite--infinite mind, Katie, and infinite good. Oh, Katie, what

awful things are taught in this world as truth! How little we know of

the great God! And yet how much people pretend they know about Him!

But if they only knew--really _knew_, as Jesus did--why, Katie, there

wouldn't be an old person, or a sick or unhappy one in the whole

world! Katie," after a little pause, "I know. And I'm going to tell

them."

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

notions, darlin'?"

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

girl.

"An' I don't wonder! We are not taught such things, honey. But then,

th' world moves, girlie--even old Katie sees that. Only, the Church

don't move with it. An' old Katie can see that, too. An' so, I'm

thinkin', does Father Waite."

"I know he does, Katie."

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

"He talked with me--a long time, this morning. He said God had taught

me what I know."

"Aye, is it so? Thin me own suspicions air right; he's out o' tune!

Did ye say, girlie dear, that he didn't scold ye fer yer funny

notions?"

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

"Did he so! Thin, lassie dear, things is goin' to happen. An' he's a

good man--troth, they make no better in this world!"

The old Sister lapsed into thought. Carmen looked out wonderingly over

the city. She yearned to know what it held for her.

"Katie," she said at length, bending again over the woman, "will you

help me find Mr. Reed?"

"Och, lassie--what's your name again?"

"Carmen," replied the girl, "Carmen Ariza."

"Cair-men Aree--now ain't that a name fer ye! An' yer nationality,

girl?"

"I'm a Colombian, Katie."

"Whist! Where is it? In Afrikay?"

"South America," with a little sigh.

"Now think o' that! An' I'm Scotch-Irish, honey; an' we're both a long

way from th' ol' sod! Lassie dear, tell me about last night. But, no;

begin 'way back. Give us th' whole tale. Old Katie's weak in th' head,

girlie, but she may see a way out fer ye. Th' Virgin help ye, puir

bairn!"

Midnight boomed from the bell in a neighboring tower when Carmen

finished her story.

"Be the Saints above!" exclaimed the old Sister, staring at the girl

in amazement. "Now do ye let me feel of ye to see that ye air human;

fer only a Saint could go through all that an' live to tell it! An'

the place ye were in last night! Now be Saint Patrick, if I was rich

I'd have Masses said every day fer that Jude who brung ye here! Don't

tell me th' good Lord won't forgive her! Och, God! she's a Saint

already."

"She's a good woman, Katie; and, somehow, I felt sorry for her, but I

don't know why. She has a beautiful home in that hotel--"

"Hotel, is it! Hivins above! But--och, sure, it was a hotel, honey.

Only, ye air better off here wi' old Katie."

"And now you will help me?"

"Help you, lassie! God bless ye, yes! But--unless it's wi' Father

Waite, I don't know what I can do. Ye air in bad with th' Sister

Superior fer yer talk at th' breakfast table. Ye're a fresh little

heathen, honey. An' she's suspicious of Father Waite, too. We all air.

An' he th' best man on airth! But his doctrine ain't just sound,

sweatheart. Hivins, doctrine! It means more'n a good heart! There,

honey, lave it to me. But it's got to be done quick, or th' Sister

Superior'll have ye in an orphan asylum, where ye'll stay till ye air

soused in th' doctrine! I can manage to get word to Father Waite

to-morrow, airly. Jinny will run over fer me. A bit of a word wi'

him'll fix it, lassie dear. An' now, honey swate, off with them funny

clothes and plump into bed. Saints above! it's all but marnin' now!"

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

her side.

"Honey," she whispered, "was ye tellin' me awhile back that ye knew

the right way to pray?"

"Yes, Katie dear," the child murmured.

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

* * * * *

"Well, Father, what do you think now?" The Sister Superior looked up

aggressively, as Father Waite slowly entered the room. His head was

bowed, and there was a look of deep earnestness upon his face.

"I have talked with her again--an hour, or more," he said reflectively.

"She is a--a remarkable girl, in many ways." He stopped, uncertain

how to proceed.

The Sister eyed him keenly. "She attracts and repels me, both," she

said. "At times she seems positively uncanny. And she appears to be

suffering from religious dementia. Do you not think so?"

It was a compromising question, and the priest weighed his words

carefully before replying. "She does--seem to--to have rather--a--rather

unusual--religious views," said he slowly.

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

"To what end?"

"That we may know what to do with her. If she is mentally unsound she

must not be sent to the orphanage."

"She should be taken--a--I mean, we should try to locate her friends.

I have already searched the city directory; but, though there are many

Reeds, there are none listed with the initials she gave me as his. I

had thought," he continued hesitatingly, "I had thought of putting her

in charge of the Young Women's Christian Association--"

"Father Waite!" The Sister Superior rose and drew herself up to her

full height. "Do you mean to say that you have contemplated delivering

her into the hands of heretics?" she demanded coldly, her tall figure

instinct with the mortal pride of religious superiority.

"Why, Sister," returned the priest with embarrassment, "would it not

be wise to place her among those whose views harmonize more closely

with hers than ours do?"

"Father! I am surprised--!"

"But--she is not a Catholic!" urged the man, with a gesture of

impatience. "And she will never be one. The combined weight of all the

centuries of church authority could not make her one--never! I must

take her to those with whom she rightfully belongs."

The Sister Superior's eyes narrowed and glittered, and her face grew

dark. "Never!" she said in a low tone. "I would rather see her dead!

Father Waite, you exceed your authority! I am in charge here, and I

shall report this case to the Bishop!"

The priest stood hesitant for a moment. The futility of his case

seemed to impress him. Taking up his hat, he bowed without speaking

and went out. The Sister Superior stepped to the telephone. Outside

the door the man listened until he caught the number she called. His

face grew dark and angry, and his hands clenched a she strode down the

hall.

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

"Hist! Father!"

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

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

there!"

Before he could reply the woman had plunged again into the dark

stairway. Stopping at a small closet below, she took out a bundle.

Then she hurried to the kitchen and summoned Carmen, who was sitting

at a table peeling potatoes.

"Troth, lazy lass," she commanded sharply, "do you take the bucket and

mop and begin on the front steps. And mind that ye don't bring me

heavy hand down on ye! Och, lassie darlin'," she added, when she had

drawn the startled girl out of hearing of the others, "give yer old

Katie a kiss, and then be off! Troth, it breaks me heart to see ye

go--but 'twould break yours to stay! Go, lassie darlin', an' don't

fergit old Katie! Here," thrusting the girl's bundle and a dollar bill

into her hands, "an' God bless ye, lass! Ye've won me, heart an' soul!

Ye'll find a frind at th' nixt corner!" pointing up the street. She

strained the girl again to her breast, then opened the door and

hastily thrust her out into the street.

For a moment Carmen stood dazed by the suddenness of it all. She

looked up confusedly at the great, yellow building from which she had

been ejected. There was no visible sign of life. Then, grasping her

bundle and the dollar bill, she hurried out through the gate and

started up the street.

Around the corner stood Father Waite. The man's face was furrowed, and

his body trembled. The girl went up to him with a glad smile. The

priest looked up, and muttered something incoherent under his breath a

she took her hand.

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

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

street car.

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

your friends."

CHAPTER 4

From the mysterious wastes which lie far out on the ocean, the fog was

again creeping stealthily across the bay and into the throbbing

arteries of the great city. Through half-opened doors and windows it

rolled like smoke, and piled like drifted snow against the mountains

of brick and stone. Caught for a moment on a transient breeze, it

swirled around a towering pile on lower Broadway, and eddied up to the

windows of the Ketchim Realty Company, where it sifted through the

chinks in the loose frames and settled like a pall over the dingy

rooms within.

To Philip O. Ketchim, junior member of the firm, it seemed a fitting

external expression of the heavy gloom within his soul. Crumpled into

the chair at the broad table in his private office, with his long,

thin legs stretched out before him, his hands crammed into the pockets

of his trousers, and his bullet-shaped head sunk on his flat chest,

until it seemed as if the hooked nose which graced his hawk-like

visage must be penetrating his breast-bone, the man was the embodiment

of utter dejection. On the littered table, where he had just tossed

it, lay the report of Reed and Harris on the pseudo-mineral properties

of the Molino Company--the "near-mines" in the rocky cañon of the

far-off Boque. Near it lay the current number of a Presbyterian

review, wherein the merits of this now moribund project were

advertised in terms whose glitter had attracted swarms of eager,

trusting investors.

The firm name of Ketchim Realty Company was something of a misnomer.

The company itself was an experiment, whose end had not justified its

inception. It had been launched a few years previously by Douglass

Ketchim to provide business careers for his two sons, James and

Philip. The old gentleman, still hale and vigorous, was one of those

sturdy Englishmen who had caught the infection of '49 and abruptly

severed the ties which bound them to their Kentish homes for the

allurements of the newly discovered El Dorado of western America.

Across the death-haunted Isthmus of Panamá and up the inhospitable

Pacific coast the indomitable spirit of the young adventurer drove

him, until he reached the golden sands of California. There he toiled

for many years, until Fortune at length smiled upon his quenchless

efforts. Then he tossed aside his rough tools and set out for the less

constricted fields of the East.

He invested his money wisely, and in the course of years turned it

several times. He became a banker. He aspired to the hand of a

sister of a railway president, and won it. He educated his sons in the

best colleges of the East, and then sent them to Europe on their

honeymoons. And finally, when the burden of years began to press

noticeably, and the game became less attractive, he retired from

the field of business, cleared off his indebtedness, organized the

Ketchim Realty Company, put its affairs on the best possible basis,

and then committed the unpardonable folly of turning it over to the

unrestricted management of his two sons.

The result was chaos. At the expiration of a year the old gentleman

hurried back into the harness to save the remnant of his fortune, only

to find it inextricably tied up in lands of dubious value and

questionable promotional schemes. The untangling of the real estate he

immediately took into his own hands. The schemes he left to his sons.

A word in passing regarding these sons, for they typify a form of

parasitical growth, of the fungus variety, which in these days has

battened and waxed noxious on the great stalk of legitimate commercial

enterprise. They were as dissimilar, and each as unlike his father, as

is possible among members of the same family. Both sought, with

diligent consecration, the same goal, money; but employed wholly

different means to gain that end. James, the elder, was a man of ready

wit, a nimble tongue, and a manner which, on occasions when he could

think of any one but himself, was affable and gracious. He was a

scoffer of religion, an open foe of business scruple, and the avowed

champion of every sort of artifice and device employed in ancient,

mediaeval, or modern finance to further his own selfish desires, in

the minimum of time, and at whatever cost to his fellow-man. In his

cups he was a witty, though arrogant, braggart. In his home he was

petulant and childish. Of real business acumen and constructive

wisdom, he had none. He would hew his way to wealth, if need be,

openly defiant of God, man, or the devil. Or he would work in subtler

ways, through deceit, jugglery, or veiled bribe. But he generally wore

his heart on his sleeve; and those who perforce had business relations

with him soon discovered that, though utterly unscrupulous, his

character was continuously revealed through his small conceit, which

caused him so to work as to be seen of men and gain their cheap

plaudits for his sharp, mendacious practices.

Philip retained a degree of his father's confidence--which James

wholly lacked--and he spared himself no pains to cultivate it. Though

far less ready of wit than his stubby, bombastic brother, he was a

tenacious plodder, and was for this reason much more likely ultimately

to achieve his sordid purposes. His energy was tireless, and he never

admitted defeat. He never worked openly; he never appeared to have a

decided line of conduct; and no one could ever say what particular

course he intended to pursue. Apparently, he was a man of exemplary

habits; and his mild boast that he knew not the taste of tobacco or

liquor could not be refuted. He was an elder in the Presbyterian

church in the little suburb where he lived, and superintendent of its

Sunday school. His prayers were beautiful expressions of reverent

piety; and his conversation, at all times chaste and modest, announced

him a man of more than ordinary purity of thought and motive. While it

is true that no one could recall any pious deed, any charitable act,

or any conduct based on motives of self-abnegation and brotherly love

performed by him, yet no one could ever point to a single coarse or

mean action emanating from the man. If there was discord in company

affairs, the wanton James always bore the onus. And because of this,

relations between the brothers gradually assumed a condition of

strain, until at length James openly and angrily denounced Philip as a

hypocrite, and refused longer to work with him. Thereupon the milder

Philip offered the other cheek and installed a mediator, in the person

of one Rawlins, a sickly, emaciated, bearded, but loyal Hermes, who

thenceforth performed the multifold functions of pacificator,

go-between, human telephone, and bearer of messages, documents, and

what-not from one to the other for a nominal wage and the crumbs that

dropped from the promoter's table.

The fog and the gloom thickened, and Ketchim sat deeply immersed in

both. He was still shaking from the fright which he had received that

morning. On opening the door as he was about to leave his house to

take the train to the city, he had confronted two bulky policemen.

With a muffled shriek he had slammed the door in their astonished

faces and darted back into the house, his heart in his throat and

hammering madly. How could he know that they were only selling tickets

to a Policemen's Ball? Then he had crept to the window and, concealed

in the folds of the curtain, had watched them go down the street,

laughing and turning often to glance back at the house that held such

a queer-mannered inmate.

Rousing himself from the gloomy revery into which he had lapsed,

Ketchim switched on the light and took up again the report of Reed

and Harris. Sullenly he turned its pages, while the sallow skin on his

low forehead wrinkled, and his bird-like face drew into ugly

contortions.

"Fools!" he muttered. "Didn't they see that clause in their contract,

providing an additional fifty thousand in stock for them in case they

made a favorable report?"

A light tap at the door, and a low cough, preceded the noiseless

entrance of the meek-souled Rawlins.

"A--a--this is the list which Reverend Jurges sent us--names and

addresses of his congregation. I've mailed them all descriptive

matter; and I wrote Mr. Jurges that the price of his stock would be

five dollars, but that we couldn't sell to his congregation for less

than seven. That's right, isn't it? I told him Molino stock would go

up to par next month. That's what you said, I believe."

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

looking up.

"Why, he said he could only get together two thousand dollars at

present, but that later he would have some endowment insurance falling

due--"

"How soon?"

"About a year, I think he said."

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

"No--but I can."

"Do so--but only hint at it. And tell him to send his check at once

for the stock he has agreed to take."

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

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

is it?"

"Er--your brother James received the letter, and I believe he put the

check in his pocket."

Ketchim gave vent to a snort of rage. "You tell James," he cried,

pounding the desk with his fist, "that as president and treasurer of

the Molino Company I demand that check!"

"Yes, sir--and--"

"Well?"

"Mr. Cass 'phoned before you got down this morning. He said the bank

refused to extend the time on your note."

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

"And here is the mail," pursued the gentle Hermes, handing him a

bundle of letters.

Ketchim roused himself with an effort. His eyes flashed angrily. "Do

you know whether James has been selling any of his own Molino stock?"

he asked.

"I--I believe he has, sir--a little."

"Humph! And how much?"

"He sold some two hundred shares yesterday--I believe; to a Miss

Leveridge."

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

"Why, the Leveridge children--grown men and women now--have just sold

their farm down state; and Mr. James saw the sale announced in the

papers. So he got in touch with Miss Alvina Leveridge. I believe he

sent Houghton down there; and he closed a deal. Mr. James got eight

dollars a share, I believe."

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

"Yes, sir," meekly.

Ketchim gulped down his wrath, and continued:

"How much did the Leveridges get for their farm? And why didn't you

inform me of the sale?" he demanded, fixing the humble Rawlins with a

cold eye.

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

the notice until--"

"As usual, James saw it first! An excellent scout you are! Twenty-five

thousand dollars! How many acres?"

"A hundred and eighty, I believe."

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

suppose?"

"I believe so, sir."

"Nezlett got back last night, didn't he? Very well, call him up and

tell him to get ready to go at once to--wherever the Leveridges live.

And--I want to see him right away!"

He abruptly dismissed the factotum and turned to his mail. As his

glance fell upon the pile he gasped. Then he quickly drew out a letter

and tore it open. His thin lips moved rapidly as his eyes roved over

the paper. He laid the letter down and looked wildly about. Then he

took it up again and read aloud the closing words:

"--and, having bought somewhat heavily of Molino stock, and

believing that your representations were made with intent to

deceive, I shall, unless immediate reparation or satisfactory

explanation is made, take such steps as my counsel may advise.

"Yours, etc.,

"J. WILTON AMES."

Congealing with fear, Ketchim took his stock memorandum from a drawer

and consulted it. "He put in ten thousand, cash," he murmured, closing

the book and replacing it. "And I always wondered why, for he doesn't

go into things that he can't control. There's where I was a fool! He

shouldn't have been sold a dollar's worth! He knows we can't return

the money; and now he's tightening the screws! He has something up his

sleeve; and we've fallen for it!"

He settled back in his chair and groaned aloud. "Why did he buy? Did

he think he'd reach Uncle Ted through us? By Jove! that's it! For a

year or more he's wanted to oust Uncle from the C. & R., and now he

thinks by threatening the family with disgrace, and us fellows with

the pen, he can do it! What fools we've been! Oh, if I ever get out of

this I'll steer clear of these deals in the future!" It was his stock

resolution, which had never borne fruit.

The door opened slightly, and the noiseless Rawlins timidly announced

the arrival of Reed and Harris.

"Show them in at once!" cried Ketchim, jumping up and hastily passing

his hands over his hair and face. Then, advancing with a wan smile, he

courteously greeted the callers.

"Well, fellows," he began, waving them to seats, "it looks a

little bad for Molino, doesn't it? I've just been reading your

report--although of course you told me over the 'phone yesterday

that there was no hope. But," he continued gravely, and his face

grew serious, "I'm glad, very glad, of one thing, and that is that

there are men in the world to-day who are above temptation."

"Which means--?" queried Harris.

"Why," continued Ketchim, smiling pallidly, "the little joker that

James inserted in the contract, about your getting fifty thousand in

the event of a favorable report. I told him it didn't look well--but

he said it would test you. He would be funny, though, no matter how

serious the business. But you showed that you were men."

Harris snickered; but Reed turned the conversation at once. "We have

been studying how we could help you pull the thing out of the fire.

Suppose you give us," he suggested, "a little of Molino's history.

Then perhaps something may occur to us."

"There isn't much to tell," replied Ketchim gloomily. "The mines were

located by a man named Lakes, at one time acting-Consul at Cartagena.

He is half Colombian, I believe. He came up to New York and interested

Bryan, Westler, and some others, and they asked us to act as fiscal

agents."

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

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

"Because, on our way down the Magdalena river we made the acquaintance

of a certain Captain Pinal, of the Colombian army. When he learned

that we were mining men he told us he had a string of rich properties

that he would like to sell. I inquired their location, and he said

they lay along the Boque river. And I learned that he had clear title

to the property, too--Molino's mines. Now you have sold some three or

four hundred thousand dollars' worth of stock on alleged mines to

which you never had even the shadow of a claim!"

"But--" murmured Ketchim weakly, "we thought we had. We acted in good

faith--we took Mr. Lakes's word--and we showed our confidence and

sincerity by purchasing machinery to operate--"

"Oh, the machinery went down there, all right!" ejaculated Harris with

a laugh. "I judge it was designed to manufacture barrel staves, rather

than to extract gold! Lakes had it shipped to Cartagena; rented part

of an old woman's house; dumped the machinery in there; and now she's

wild. Can't get her pay from you for storing the machinery; and can't

sell the stuff, nor move it. So there she sits, under some six or

eight tons of iron junk, waiting for the Lord to perform a miracle!"

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

funds--"

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

"Oh, no!" quickly returned Ketchim. "We would not sell any more stock

until we received your report--and not then, unless the report were

favorable. That would not have been right!"

Reed eyed him narrowly. But the image of truth sat enthroned upon

Ketchim's sharp features.

"It is unfortunate, boys," the promoter continued dejectedly. "But I

care nothing for my own losses; it's the poor stockholders I am

thinking about. I would do anything to relieve them. I've prayed to be

led to do right. What would you suggest?"

"I suggest," blurted out Harris, "that, having already relieved them

considerably, you'll soon be wearing a striped suit!"

The last trace of color faded from Ketchim's face, but the sickly

smile remained. "I'd wear it, willingly, if by so doing I could help

these poor people," he mournfully replied.

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

in one."

"Boys," said Ketchim suddenly, quite disregarding the insinuation,

"to-morrow is Sunday, and I want you both out to dinner with me, and

we will talk this all over. Then in the afternoon I want you to come

over and see my little Sunday school. Fellows," he continued gravely,

"I've prayed for you and for your success every day since you left.

And my faith in my Saviour is too great to be shattered now by your

adverse report. He certainly will show us a way out; and I can trust

him and wait."

Reed and Harris looked at him and then at each other with puzzled

expressions on their faces. The man continued earnestly:

"Colombia is a rich and undeveloped country, you have said. There must

be other mineral properties available there. Did you see none on your

travels? Or could we not organize an exploration party to search for

mines?"

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

"Oh, that could be arranged."

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

Harris.

"Fellows," said Ketchim, brightening and drawing his chair closer,

"you've got something--I know it! You've got something to suggest that

will save the Molino stockholders!"

"But not yourself, eh?" taunted Harris.

"I shall sacrifice myself," answered Ketchim deprecatingly. His manner

had now become animated, and he leaned expectantly toward them.

Reed and Harris again looked questioningly at each other. "I guess we

might as well," said Reed in a low voice. "It is bound to come out,

anyway."

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

"Mr. Ketchim," began Reed, turning to the eager, fidgeting man, "when

I came to New York a year ago, looking for a business opening, my

friend and former classmate in the University, Mr. Cass, put me in

touch with you. At that time you were booming the Molino company hard,

and, I have no doubt, thought you really had something down in

Colombia. But when you offered to lease me a portion of your

properties there, I laughed at you. And, in the course of time, I

succeeded in convincing you that you knew nothing whatsoever about the

properties on which you were selling so much stock. Then, after months

of parley, from an offer to permit me to go down to Colombia at my own

expense to examine Molino's mines, to ascertain whether or not I

wished to operate a part of them on a royalty basis, you adopted my

own view, namely, that the time had come for you to know whether the

company possessed anything of value or not. And so you sent my

associate, Mr. Harris, and myself down there to examine and report on

Molino's so-called mines. And you gave us each a block of stock as

part compensation. We found the mines barren. And now you have got to

face a body of stockholders from whom you have lured thousands of

dollars by your misrepresentations. From talks with your salesmen, I

am convinced that this body of stockholders is made up chiefly of

widows and indigent clergymen."

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

"Let us waive that," replied Reed calmly. "The fact is, you are in a

hard way just at present, is it not so?"

"Fellows," said Ketchim, with an air of penitent humility, "the

officers and stockholders of the Molino Company have been grossly

deceived and unfortunately--"

"All right," interrupted Reed, "we'll pass that. But Harris and I have

played square with you. And we are going to continue to do so, and to

offer you a possible opportunity to do something for your poor

stockholders, and incidentally for yourself and us. The fact is, we do

know of another property down there, but we haven't the title--"

"That makes no difference!" interrupted Ketchim. "I mean, it can be

acquired--" striving to restrain his eagerness.

"That's just the question," replied Reed. "The title is at present

vested in a young Colombian girl, who, unfortunately, is lost. This

girl came up to the States with us--"

"Ha!" exclaimed Ketchim, unable longer to hold himself. "Then you

broke your contract, for that stipulated that whatever you might

acquire there should belong to me! I engaged your services,

remember!"

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

company."

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

Ketchim.

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

grin.

"I'm speaking for the stockholders, of course," said Ketchim,

subsiding. "But, proceed, please."

"There is no likelihood that this poor girl will ever be heard of

again," continued Reed. "Nor is it likely that the title papers, which

she has with her, will be of any use to those into whose hands she has

fallen. Her old foster-father held the title to this mine, but

transferred it to the girl, stipulating that she and I should divide a

large interest in the stock of a company formed to develop and operate

it. For my share, I agreed to bring the young girl to the States and

place her in a school, at my own expense." He went on to relate the

manner in which Carmen had been lost, and then continued: "Of course,

the title to this mine is registered in Cartagena, and in the girl's

name, as the old man gave me power to have that change made. But, now

that she is gone, the property naturally reverts to him."

"We will relocate it!" declared Ketchim impatiently.

"No, that wouldn't be right to the old man," returned Reed. "But, it

might be that the property could now be secured from him. He is old

and penniless, and without any further interest in life. It is a bare

chance, but we might prevail upon him to join us in the formation of a

company to take over his mine, La Libertad."

"Is that the name of it?" asked Ketchim, reaching for a writing pad.

"Spell it for me, please. And the name of the old man."

Reed complied, and then continued: "Now, Mr. Ketchim, we are living

strictly up to the letter of our contract by giving you this

information. It would require not less than one hundred thousand

dollars, cash in hand, to acquire that mine, develop it, make trails,

and erect a stamp-mill. Mr. Harris and I are in no condition

financially to advance or secure such an amount."

"It is barely possible," mused Harris, "that my father and Uncle John

could do something."

"We don't have to call upon them!" cried Ketchim. "Your interest, Mr.

Reed, in this mine already belongs to Molino, as you were acting under

contract with us--"

"I have covered that point, Mr. Ketchim," replied Reed evenly. "But

the time has come for us all to put our shoulders to the wheel, act

fairly with one another, help the Molino stockholders, and at the same

time make good ourselves. Mr. Harris and I have barely entered upon

our business careers, and we have come to New York to establish

ourselves. This may afford the opportunity. We know where this mine

is--we know the old man, and may be able to influence him. To

forestall possible complications, we should begin negotiations with

him at once. But--remember--everything must be done in the name of the

company, not in your own name. And Mr. Harris and I must personally

negotiate with the old man, and receive a very liberal compensation

for our work."

"Certainly!" cried the excited Ketchim. "Goodness, fellows! why didn't

you tell me this yesterday over the 'phone, and save me a night of

torment? But I forgive you. Gracious! Rawlins," he said, addressing

that individual, who had entered in response to the buzzer, "'phone

Cass to come right over. And tell Miss Honeywell to give you ten

dollars for our lunch, and charge it to Molino. It's company business.

By Jove, fellows! this is a happy day for me. Since the old man gave

you a share in the mine, Molino has property, after all!"

"Has it to get," amended Harris dubiously.

"Oh, we'll get it!" cried Ketchim, rubbing his hands gleefully. "But

now while waiting for Cass, tell me more about your trip. It is

wonderful! And so romantic!"

In the midst of the ensuing recital, Cass was announced; and Ketchim,

after detailing to him the previous conversation, launched into the

project which had been developing in his own mind while Reed had been

describing his experiences in the South.

"What we want is another organization, fellows," he said in

conclusion, "to take over the tottering Molino; purchase its assets

with stock; give Molino stockholders an opportunity to get in on the

ground floor, and so on. We'll let Molino die in the arms of a new

company, eh?"

"But one with a somewhat wider scope," suggested Cass, with an air of

importance. "A sort of general development company, to secure La

Libertad, if possible; prospect for other mineral properties; and

develop the resources of the country."

"Just so," assented Ketchim, with increasing enthusiasm. "A company to

go in for coffee, cotton--you say you saw wild cotton, didn't you,

fellows? Great! And cocoanuts, timber, cattle--in fact, we'll get

concessions from the Colombian Government, and we'll--"

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

"That's it!" cried Ketchim radiantly. "Uncle Ted has influence at

Washington, with the Pan American Union, and so on--why, we can get

anything we want! Ames and the bank will both cool down--by Jove, this

is great!"

"But where's the cold and vulgar cash coming from to oil the wheels?"

put in the practical Harris.

"Oh, I can sell the stock," replied Ketchim. "Then, too, there's the

Molino stockholders; why, I'll bet there's hardly one that wouldn't be

able to scrape up a few dollars more for the new company! By the way,

what'll we call it? Give us a name, somebody."

"I'd call it the Salvation Company," drawled Harris, "as it is likely

to delay your trip to Sing Sing."

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

remark.

"I suggest we call it the Simití Development Company," said Cass,

after a moment's dignified reflection.

"Great!" cried Ketchim. "It has a prosperous ring! And now its

capitalization? We must make it big!"

"Hem!" returned Cass. "If these gentlemen can acquire that mine, I

think I would capitalize for, say, about three millions." He went to

the desk and made some calculations. "I assume," he continued somewhat

pompously after a few moments' figuring, "that you wish to retain me,

and that I am to take my compensation in stock?"

Ketchim quickly assented. He knew that Cass had correctly concluded

that in no other way was he likely to be reimbursed. And, at best, it

was only a hazard, a wild gamble. In fact, it was a last desperate

chance. Moreover, stock was always available; while cash was a rare

commodity.

"Suppose, then," continued the sapient young lawyer, "that we

capitalize for three millions; set aside one million, five hundred and

one thousand as treasury stock, to be sold to raise money for

development purposes; transfer to the Ketchim Realty Company one

million, as compensation for acting as fiscal agents of the new

company; transfer to these two gentlemen, as part compensation for

past and future services, the sum of four hundred thousand in stock;

give to the stockholders of the Molino Company the sum of fifty-nine

thousand in stock for all the assets, machinery, good will, _et

cetera_, of that company; and to me, for services to be rendered,

forty thousand dollars' worth of the stock. All of us shall agree not

to sell any of our personal holdings of stock until the company shall

be placed upon a dividend-paying basis. And Mr. Reed, or Mr. Harris,

or both, will return to Colombia immediately to relocate the mine, and

prepare for its development, while the Ketchim Realty Company at once

endeavor to sell the treasury stock."

Having delivered himself of this comprehensive plan, Cass settled back

in his chair and awaited remarks.

"Well," observed Ketchim at length, "that's all right--only, I think

we should be allowed to sell our personal stock if we wish. Of

course," with a deprecating wave of his hand, "there isn't the

slightest likelihood of our ever wanting to do that--with a mine such

as you have described, fellows. But--why hedge us about?"

"Not one dollar's worth of your stock shall you be permitted to sell!"

cried Harris, bringing his fist down upon the desk.

"I suggest that we leave that for the Directors to decide later,"

offered Cass, anxious to avoid discord. He was young, scarcely out of

the twenties, just married, just admitted to the bar, and eager to get

a toe-hold in the world of business. "And now," he concluded, "if

agreeable to you, I will put this through at once, organize the

company, and get the charter. You gentlemen will return to Colombia as

soon as Mr. Ketchim can provide the necessary funds."

"Mr. Harris and I have formed an engineering partnership," said Reed.

"As such, we will handle the affairs of the new company in Colombia.

Mr. Harris will proceed to that country, while I go to California to

open a copper mine which we have taken over there. In time I will

relieve Mr. Harris in the South. Now, Mr. Ketchim, what can you do?"

"I'll send Houghton and Nezlett out on the road to-morrow. Rawlins

has just told me of one prospect, a bully one! We don't need to

wait for the papers from Albany before going ahead. But we find it

costs about forty-eight cents to sell a dollar's worth of stock, and

so some time will be needed to raise enough to send Mr. Harris back

to Colombia--unless," he added, eying Harris furtively, "he will

advance us the amount of his own expenses--"

"Which he will not!" retorted Harris warmly. "I haven't it, anyway.

Nor has Reed. We're both broke."

"There's a revolution on down there now," said Reed, "and we'd better

go easy for a while. Besides, Harris needs time to study the language.

But, are we all agreed on the terms? Salary for Harris while in

Colombia to be settled later, of course."

"It's all satisfactory, I think," said Ketchim, smiling happily. "The

details can be worked out anon--Molino stockholders' meeting, and so

on."

"Then," said Reed, rising, "we will consider the new company launched,

to take over the defunct Molino and to operate on a comprehensive

scale in Colombia, beginning with the development of La Libertad, if

we can secure it."

At that moment Rawlins opened the door and peered in. "A gentleman to

see Mr. Reed," he announced softly; "a priest, I believe."

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

entered with Carmen.

With a glad cry the girl dropped her bundle and bounded into the arms

of the astonished Harris. Reed grasped the priest's hand, and begged

him to speak. Ketchim and the young lawyer looked on in perplexity.

"I was unable to find your name in the city directory, Mr. Reed,"

explained the priest, his face beaming with happiness. "But at police

headquarters I found that you had made inquiries, and that detectives

were searching for the girl. I learned that you were living with your

wife's sister, and that you had no business address, having just come

up from South America. So I telephoned to your sister-in-law, and your

wife informed me that you had an appointment this morning at this

office. I therefore came directly here with the girl, who, as you see,

is safe and sound, but with an additional interesting experience or

two to add to the large fund she already possessed." He looked down at

Carmen and smiled. "And now," he concluded, laughing, as he prepared

to depart, "I will not ask for a receipt for the child, as I see I

have several witnesses to the fact that I have delivered her to the

proper custodian." He bowed and went to the door.

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

want to know you--"

"I will give you my card," replied the priest. "And I would be very

happy, indeed, if some time again I might be permitted to see and talk

with the little girl." He handed his card to Reed; then nodded and

smiled at Carmen and went out.

"By Jove!" sputtered Harris, pushing the girl aside and making after

him. But he was too late. The priest had already caught a descending

elevator, and disappeared. Harris returned to the bewildered group. "I

guess that knocks the Simití Company sky-high," he exclaimed, "for

here is the sole owner of La Libertad!"

Ketchim collapsed into a chair, while Reed, saying that he would keep

his dinner engagement with Ketchim on the following day, picked up

Carmen's precious bundle and, taking her hand, left the room. "I am

going home," he called back to Harris; "and you be sure to come up to

the house to-night. We'll have to readjust our plans now."

CHAPTER 5

"Reed," said Harris the following day, as they sat in the dusty,

creaking car that was conveying them to their dinner appointment with

Ketchim, "who is this Ames that Ketchim referred to yesterday?"