he drew forth the volume.

“Voltaire!”

The doting father stood petrified. Voltaire, Antichrist, Archfiend of impiety––and in the hands of his beloved son!

Sleep fled the little household that night. In his father’s arms, while the distressed mother hung over them, the boy sobbed out his confession. He had not intended to deceive. He had picked up this book in the stall without knowing its 18 nature. He had become so interested in what it said about the Virgin Mary that he forgot all else. The shopkeeper had found him reading it, and had laughed and winked at his clerk when he bade the boy take it home for the night. The book had fascinated him. He himself––did not his father know?––had so often asked how the Virgin could be the mother of God, and why men prayed to her. Yes, he knew it mocked their faith––and the sacred Scriptures. He knew, too, that his father would not approve of it. That was why he had tried to hide it beneath his pillow. He had been wicked, desperately wicked, to deceive his dear parents––But the book––It made him forget––It said so many things that seemed to be true––And––and––

“Oh, padre mío, forgive me, forgive me! I want to know the truth about God and the world!” The delicate frame of the young lad shook in paroxysms of grief.

Alas! it was but the anguished soul-cry which has echoed through the halls of space since time began. What a mockery to meet it with empty creed and human dogma! Alas! what a crime against innocence to stifle the honest questionings of a budding mind with the musty cloak of undemonstrable beliefs.

“But, my son, have I not often told you? The Holy Church gives us the truth,” replied the father, frightened by the storm which raged within the childish soul, yet more alarmed at the turn which the mind of his cherished son was apparently taking––his only son, dedicated to the service of God from the cradle, and in whom the shattered hopes of this once proud family were now centered.

“But this book laughs at us because we pray to a woman!” sobbed the boy.

“True. But does not its author need the prayers of so pure a woman as the Virgin? Do we not all need them? And is it not likely that one so good as she would have great influence with God––much greater than we ourselves, or even the best of men, could have?”

“But how can she be the mother of God? The Bible does not teach that!”

“How do you know that the Bible does not teach it, my son?”

“I––I––have read––the Bible,” faltered the lad.

“You have read the Bible!” cried the astonished father. “And where have you done that, you wicked boy?”

“At the bookstore of Mariano,” confessed the trembling child.

“Madre de Dios!” burst from the father, as he started to his feet. “Mariano is a wicked infidel! The Bishop shall hear of this! Ah, well may the Holy Father in Rome grieve to see 19 his innocent babes led astray by these servants of hell! But, my son,” returning to the boy and clasping him again in his arms, “it is not too late. The Virgin Mother has protected you. You meant no harm. Satan covets your pure little soul––But he shall not have it!” The father’s tremulous voice mounted high, “No, by the Saints in heaven, he shall not have it!”

The boy’s assurance slowly returned under the influence of his father’s tender solicitude, even though he remained dimly conscious of the rift widening little by little between his parents’ settled convictions and his own groping thought. With the assuaging of his grief came again those insistent questions which throughout his life had tormented his peace and driven him even to the doors of infidels in search of truth.

“Father,” he began timidly, “why was I wicked to read the Bible?”

“Because, my son, in doing so you yielded to the temptations of Satan. The Bible is a great and mysterious book, written by God himself. He meant it to be explained to us by the Holy Father, who is the head of the Church which the good Saint Peter founded. We are not great enough nor good enough to understand it. The Holy Father, who cares for God’s Church on earth, he is good enough, and he alone can interpret it to us. Satan tries to do with all men just what he did with you, my child. He seeks to make them read the Bible so that he can confuse them and rob them of their faith. Then when he gets possession of their souls he drags them down with him to hell, where they are lost forever.”

“And does the Holy Father really believe that Mary is the mother of God?” persisted the boy, raising his tear-stained face.

“Yes––is she not? The blessed Saviour said that he and God were one. And, as Mary is the mother of Christ, she is also the mother of God––is she not? Let us read what the good Saint John Chrysostom says.” He rose and went into another room, returning in a few minutes with a little volume. Taking the boy again on his knee, he continued, “The blessed Saint tells us that the Virgin Mary was made the mother of God in order that she might obtain salvation for many who, on account of their wicked lives, could not be saved, because they had so offended divine justice, but yet, by the help of her sweet mercy and mighty intercession, might be cleansed and rendered fit for heaven. My little son, you have always been taught that Mary is heaven’s Queen. And so she is ours, and reigns in heaven for us. Jesus loves to have her close to him, and he can never refuse her requests. He always grants 20 what she asks. And that is the reason why we pray to her. She never forgets us––never!”

A troubled look crossed the boy’s face. Then he began anew. “Father dear, God made everything, did He not? The Bible says that, anyway.”

“Yes, child.”

“Did He make Satan?”

The father hesitated. The child hurried on under the lash of his holy inquisitiveness. “Father, how did evil come into the world? Is God both good and bad? And how can a good God punish us forever for sins committed here in only a few short years?”

“Ah, queridito!” cried the harassed father. “Such questions should not have entered your little head for years to come! Why can you not run and play as do other children? Why are you not happy as they are? Why must you spend your days thinking of things that are far too deep for you? Can you not wait? Some day you shall know all. Some day, when you have entered the service of God, perhaps you may even learn these things from the Holy Father himself. Then you will understand how the good God lets evil tempt us in order that our faith in Him may be exercised and grow strong––”

“And He lets Satan harm us purposely?” The boy’s innocent dark eyes looked up appealingly into his father’s face.

“It is only for a short time, little son. And only those who are never fit for heaven go down with Satan. But you are not one of those,” he hastily added, straining the boy to him. “And the Masses which the good priests say for us will lift us out of purgatory and into heaven, where the streets are pure gold and the gates are pearl. And there we will all live together for––”

“Father,” interrupted the boy, “I have thought of these things for a long, long time. I do not believe them. And I do not wish to become a priest.”

The father fell silent. It was one of those tense moments which every man experiences when he sees a withering frost slowly gathering over the fondest hopes of a lifetime. The family of Rincón, aristocratic, intensely loyal to Church and State, had willingly laid itself upon the sacrificial altar in deference to its honored traditions. Custom had become law. Obedience of son to parent and parent to Sovereign, spiritual or temporal,