tell them anything, till he may recover and I may take him hence!"

"Take him hence? No one ever leaves

this place! Seest there those graves? There is room for more, two more at least."

"Nevertheless, do as I tell thee!"

The servant returned with what had been asked, and handed to Juan a couple of small loaves, or rolls, of bread.

No air or light entered from without. The light from the small hanging lamp went out, but in the darkness Juan kneeled, gently rubbing oils on the wounds, touching the fevered lips with water and wine. It might have been hours, it might have been days, Juan knew not; but he still kneeled, himself faint from the foul air, whispering words of love and cheer to his dear master.

"Orad, Juan, a Dios" (Pray, Juan, to God), were the whispered words ever and

anon.

It was the warm season of the year. During the hot noon hours, men and women left their work. But as evening drew on, doors and windows were opened to the cooler air, and people sat in doorways, corridors or even along the sidewalks chatting or seeking some cooler spot.

Suddenly a low distant rumble was

heard, then a trembling, a shaking-a great and terrible shaking-for the Maker of this earth had reached out and touched it, and it trembled and shock, walls crumbled, roofs fell and men and women staggered about screaming, "Tremblor, tremblor!" For more helpless than the weakest insect is man when God does shake his resting place.

The rear walls of the bishop's residence had fallen in; a long seam extending down into the dungeon walls. Air and light rushed in. Juan sprang to his feet, realizing what had happened, and with an instinct and strength born for the occasion, rushed to the gap, tearing away the loosened ground till he could look into the street above him. He called to a couple of men, who, from without, while he within, widened the gap, till lowering themselves, the three lifted the mangled form, covering it with a "serape" (native blanket which the men often carry about their persons), and bore it through the excited crowd to the nearest home of a friend.

The heretic missionary was summoned. Loving friends ministered most tenderly until the true, loyal soul went to meet the Master whom he would not deny.

Then the heretic missionary, in lawful indignation, spread the story, the cruel

story, all about, though the press refused him room, for they feared to print aught against their priests.

The eyes of many were opened for the first time to the cruelty and deceptions of the "Holy Church of Rome."

Some said the earthquake was God's visitation in anger for the cruel deed. Others said the earthquake was a blow against the heretics, though it was well known that the heretics' premises had not been damaged.

The lad Frederico clung more closely than ever to his new-found protectors. They, realizing his danger, kept him closely sheltered. He did not go upon the street. His grief found vent through his music.

By the hours sat the boy at the organ, his fingers drawing sweet melody from the keys, and his voice, wonderfully tender and pathetic now, floated out through the windows, till passersby stopped to listen and to say:

"Strange things are happening in our city! A priest is murdered because he turns heretic, and now here is that 'voice of an angel' singing heretic songs. What are we coming to, Jesus Maria?"

CHAPTER VIII.

Two MOTHERS.

One day there came a visitor to the Protestant's house, a woman whose hair was white and whose face, though young and beautiful, was strangely sad.

"Is this where the heretic lives?" she inquired. "Some months ago he left at our hacienda some papers and this 'New Testament,' he called it. I have been reading them, till they have brought comfort to my sad heart. But I would know more. I would talk with the heretic!"

And as they talked together, the songs and wonderful voice of the lad at the organ floated into the room. The woman ceased her talking, hearing only the singing. A strange look had come over her face.

"We will go into that room and listen," said the missionary, stepping to open the door. But the woman was there before him. She opened the door herself, stood a moment looking, listening.

Frederico turned his face. With a scream she fell toward him, crying, "My boy! oh, my boy!"

Far into the night they talked, listening and telling each to the other of the strange things that had befallen.

"Let us kneel together and thank God above for his love and kindness toward us," said the heretic. "And now," he added, turning toward the happy Dona Alicia, "stay with us for a few days, and then let me accompany you both to El Paso, where, for a few years, you both may live; your son to escape danger here, and fit himself for a life of usefulness, and you to make for him a home.

The heretic missionary made frequent trips to the mining villages, driving in his little cart alone, over the rough mountain roads. Holding services in these places and leaving tracts and Bibles, his journeyings, though gladly done, were wearisome. At such home returnings, nothing rested the tired man better than to take into his arms his own little laughing baby girl. First a merry tussle, soft little baby hands tugging with might and main at papa's hair, laughing and calling the while; then a velvety cheek against his own, two little arms creeping about his neck; then a little stillness, for baby is tired, and soon a little head is resting upon his breast. The big. brown head above begins to droop, and papa's cheek is resting now against the