the destruction of his church and the death of his flock? His spirit was as water within him, and he bent his head in silent, agonized prayer.

"Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am human," he prayed. "I heard when Thy Word Isaid that there is no man that hath left house or brethren or sister or father or mother or wife or children or lands for My sake and the gospel's, but he shall receive an hundredfold, and in the world to come, eternal life. I heard, and I left all for Thy sake, and it was all made up to me all that and more. Thy grace has been sufficient for me until now-O Lord, give Thy servant strength in this hour of trial!"

Then he lifted his head and ceased praying. Still there floated before his eyes the vision of the limp body of little Miguel as he had lain only a few hours before, prostrate on the silver cross. Was the child dead, or did he live? If he were dead, God had taken him for His own. If he lived-the priest shut his eyes for a moment as if in pain, but it was not his broken arm that hurt him then. Perhaps God had taken him if he were alive. With a feeling of great reverence, Padre Vicente remembered how the child had come to him from the very gate of death, as it were. He recalled with a joy painful in its sweetness,

how he had loved the child-for more than six years the little one had been the very apple of his eye. The other padres had always said. that the boy was surely destined for the priesthood-that his miraculous rescue from the waves and his sudden advent into the very sanctuary of Holy Church could not mean anything else. Padre Vicente had pondered upon the manner of the child's coming even more than had the others, and had loved him more-the child seemed in a peculiar way to belong to him. Yet he had not said anything of giving him to the priesthood. There would be time to determine that, he thought, when the child was old enough to decide for himself. But, though the priest had never wholly admitted it to himself, there had been another reason for his silence. Always there had lurked in the background the specter of secularization of dispossession-and perhaps a loveless old age in some far country. And, beside this, all unowned to himself, there had lingered the thought of an old age not loveless if the boy, unbound by priestly vows, were with him to love and to be loved. Miguel to be all his -all his! Padre Vicente had given his own life? Was not that enough?

A smothered cry escaped the lips of the priest as he saw clearly for the first time the

purport of his unacknowledged thought. He had been putting his will before the will of God Who had surely set His seal upon the child to make him His own-dead or alive. Like a flash there came to the priest the words; "and he that loveth son or daughter more than Me is not worthy of Me." He had left all once-but once was not enough. For years, secure in the joy of service, he had looked upon the pain of sacrifice as something past and gone, for to Padre Vicente personal hardship had meant nothing. He had seen silver watches and two-wheeled ox-carts taken away from the friars by the padre presidente, who was always jealous of the sanctity of the vow of poverty. Neither trinkets nor the luxury of wheels meant anything to Padre Vicente, but love meant a great deal. Was the love of a little child a temptation of the flesh? Perhaps if it went against the will of God. It might be that the good God had taken the child away as the kind padre presidente had taken the baubles from his monks-for the good of the soul.

Rising from his seat on the broken pilaster, Padre Vicente, strong man that he was, tottered as he made his way over the debris toward the altar, crying in the bitterness of his soul:

"Thou knowest, O Lord, that I am not worthy to serve Thee! But take not the life of the child because of my sin!"

Then, flinging himself on his face before the altar where all the candles had gone out, he tried to pray. But all that would come to his lips were the words sung in an uncertain, childish treble along with stronger voices only a few hours ago:

“O Lord, save Thy people and bless Thine heritage:

Govern them and lift them up forever!"

Conscious of the meaning of the prayer in his own heart, the priest repeated the words again and again, and the peace of God, that passeth all understanding, crept into his soul. At last he rose to his feet, his face glorified. Then, as though speaking to One close at his side, he said softly:

"Again I give Thee Thine own. Dead or alive, the child is Thine."

Reverently closing the door behind him, Padre Vicente left the church as he had early that morning, by way of the sacristy. All was peace in the padres' garden, and now for the first time, the priest knew that his arm gave him great pain. Hastening into the cloister, he found Padre Luis, who set the broken bone and bound it up, wondering, as

he did so, at the strange light on his brother's face. But of that matter Padre Vicente vouchsafed not one word, nor did he ask concerning the child. Instead, he asked about the wounded neophytes, and when Padre Luis told him that they were calling for him, he would not rest until he had ministered to them.

After a time, old María came to where Padre Vicente sat in the courtyard beside a man whose hurts gave him great pain. Looking at the padre's arm in splints, and then at the glorified expression on his face, the good woman bowed low and crossed herself.

"The child is awake and calls for the Padre Vicente," she said in an awed tone.

The expression on the priest's face did not change. He rose and went with the old woman, whose reverence for him was plainly that for a saint. For, had not the good padre stayed in the ruins to pray after everyone else had left? Had not her own sister Juana, peering into the church an hour ago seen him at the altar in an attitude of devotion? was not his face like that of an angel even now? Unconsciously old María sank to her knees before the padre as he entered the room where the child lay. But the priest took her by the hand and helped her to her feet.

And