The little one opened his eyes, and gazed up.  Evidently he liked what he saw, for he kept on gazing, and a smile spread over his features, a wistful and tender and infinitely sad little smile, of a child who perhaps never had a good meal in his lifetime.  “Nice man!” he whispered; and the woman, hearing his voice again, began sobbing wildly, and caught Carpenter’s free hand and covered it with her tears.  “It is all right,” said he; “all right, all right!  He will get well—­do not be afraid.”  He smiled back at the child, saying:  “It is better now; you will not have so much pain.”  To me he remarked, “What is there so lovely as a child?”

The people thronging the doorway spread word what was going on, and there were shouts of excitement, and presently the voice of a woman, clamoring for admission.  The throng made way, and she brought a bundle in her arms, which being unfolded proved to contain a sick baby.  I never knew what was the matter with it; I don’t suppose the mother knew, nor did Carpenter seem to care.  The woman knelt at his feet, praying to him; but he bade her stand up, and took the child from her, and looked into its face, and then closed his eyes in prayer.  When he handed back the burden, a few minutes later, she gazed at it.  Something had happened, or at least she thought it had happened, for she gave a cry of joy, and fell at Carpenter’s feet again, and caught the hem of his garment with one hand and began to kiss it.  The rumor spread outside, and there were more people clamoring.  Before long, filtering into the room, came the lame, and the halt, and the blind.

I had been reading not long ago of the miracles of Lourdes, so I knew in a general way what to expect.  I know that modern science vindicates these things, demonstrating that any powerful stimulus given to the unconscious can awaken new vital impulses, and heal not merely the hysterical and neurotic, but sometimes actual physical ailments.  Of course, to these ignorant Mexicans and Italians, there was no possible excitement so great as that caused by Carpenter’s appearance and behavior.  I understood the thing clearly; and yet, somehow, I could not watch it without being startled—­thrilled in a strange, uncomfortable way.

And later on I had company in these unaccustomed emotions; the crowd gave way, and who should come into the room but Mary Magna!  She did not speak to either of us, but slipped to one side and stood in silence—­while the crowd watched her furtively out of the corner of its eyes, thinking her some foreign princess, with her bold, dark beauty and her costly attire.  I went over to her, whispering, “How did you get here?” She explained that, when we did not arrive at the studios, she had called up the Stebbins home and learned about the accident.  “They warned me not to come here, because this man was a terrible Bolshevik; he made a blood-thirsty speech to the mob.  What did he say?”