“A treek?  A treek?” she slowly and wonderingly repeated.  Then suddenly, as if comprehending him, she turned her round black eyes full upon him and dropped her fan from her face.

“And what for you ask me to come here then?”

“I wanted to talk with you,” he began, “on far more serious matters.  I wished to—­” but he stopped.  He could not address this quaint child-woman staring at him in black-eyed wonder, in either the measured or the impetuous terms with which he would have exhorted a maturer responsible being.  He made a step toward her; she drew back, striking at his extended hand half impatiently, half mischievously with her fan.

He flushed—­and then burst out bluntly, “I want to talk with you about your soul.”

“My what?”

“Your immortal soul, unhappy girl.”

“What have you to make with that?  Are you a devil?” Her eyes grew rounder, though she faced him boldly.

“I am a Minister of the Gospel,” he said, in hurried entreaty.  “You must hear me for a moment.  I would save your soul.”

“My immortal soul lif with the Padre at the Mission—­you moost seek her there!  My mortal body,” she added, with a mischievous smile, “say to you, ‘good a’ night, Don Esteban.’” She dropped him a little curtsy and—­ran away.

“One moment, Miss Ramirez,” said Masterton, eagerly; but she had already slipped beyond his reach.  He saw her little black figure passing swiftly beside the moonlit wall, saw it suddenly slide into a shadowy fissure, and vanish.

In his blank disappointment he could not bear to re-enter the house he had left so sanguinely a few moments before, but walked moodily in the garden.  His discomfiture was the more complete since he felt that his defeat was owing to some mistake in his methods, and not the incorrigibility of his subject.

Was it not a spiritual weakness in him to have resented so sharply the girl’s imputation that he wished to make love to her?  He should have borne it as Christians had even before now borne slander and false testimony for their faith!  He might even have accepted it, and let the triumph of her conversion in the end prove his innocence.  Or was his purpose incompatible with that sisterly affection he had so often preached to the women of his flock?  He might have taken her hand, and called her “Sister Pepita,” even as he had called Deborah “Sister.”  He recalled the fact that he had for an instant held her struggling in his arms:  he remembered the thrill that the recollection had caused him, and somehow it now sent a burning blush across his face.  He hurried back into the house.

The next day a thousand wild ideas took the place of his former settled resolution.  He would seek the Padre, this custodian of the young girl’s soul; he would convince him of his error, or beseech him to give him an equal access to her spirit!  He would seek the uncle of the girl, and work upon his feelings.