Page:Death Comes for the Archbishop.pdf/217

 so keenly that he wiped a little moisture from his eyes,—(he was quickly moved, after the way of sick people) and he cleared his glasses and called:

“Father Latour, it is time for you to rest your back. You have been stooping over a great while.”

The Bishop came and sat down in a wheelbarrow that stood at the edge of the arbour.

“I have been thinking that I shall no longer pray for your speedy recovery, Joseph. The only way I can keep my Vicar within call is to have him sick.”

Father Joseph smiled.

“You are not in Santa Fé a great deal yourself, my Bishop.”

“Well, I shall be here this summer, and I hope to keep you with me. This year I want you to see my lotus flowers. Tranquilino will let the water into my lake this afternoon.” The lake was a little pond in the middle of the garden, into which Tranquilino, clever with water, like all Mexicans, had piped a stream from the Santa Fé creek flowing near at hand. “Last summer, while you were away,” the Bishop continued, “we had more than a hundred lotus blossoms floating on that little lake. And all from five bulbs that I put into my valise in Rome.”

“When do they blossom?”

“They begin in June, but they are at their best in July.”