Running water, clover fields, cottonwoods, acacias, little adobe houses with brilliant gardens, a boy driving a flock of white goats toward the stream,—that was what the young Bishop saw. A few moments later, when he was struggling with his horses, trying to keep them from overdrinking, a young girl with a black shawl over her head came running toward him. He thought he had never seen a kindlier face. Her greeting was that of a Christian. “Ave María Purísima, Señor. Whence do you come?” “Blessed child,” he replied in Spanish, “I am a priest who has lost his way. I am famished for water.” “A
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