e all wet, the great laurels by the path shown as
if varnished, the huge madrono leaves each held a jewel on its tip; all
evidences of a heavy rain were about me, yet I had not been aware of it
falling. In a short time I was deep in the redwood forest, away from the
world in companionship with God.

III.

It was nearly five o'clock when I approached the ruin on my return; the
sun was now low enough to throw long shadows over the place, and made an
effect of gloom which formed a good setting for the wall, with its green
drapery standing out shining and warm in a glorious flood of golden
sunshine.

As I sat down to enjoy the picture, I became aware of some one walking
behind the great clumps of nightshade, and presently a young woman
stepped from behind the atropa where Madre Moreno had that morning been
picking the poisonous leaves, and walked across the hollow, stepping
gracefully from stone to stone till she came to the bright spot where
the sun was shining, and seating herself at the foot of the wall, opened
a book and began to read aloud. Beautiful as the scene had been before,
it was now enhanced, and I did not stir, lest I should dispel the lovely
vision.

For fully half an hour I must have remained there before she became
aware of my presence; when she saw me, she started a little, but
regaining her composure quickly, closed her book, and rose to leave the
place. In crossing the hollow she stumbled and fell, uttering a sharp
cry of pain; I ran immediately to her assistance. Supporting the
fainting girl, I helped, or rather carried, her to the bank where I had
been sitting. By the time I reached the place, she had recovered
consciousness, and in answer to my inquiry said that her ankle had been
sprained by the fall, and that the pain was severe. As she spoke the
tears came to her eyes, and she gave a cry when she tried to rise.

"Do you live near here?" I asked, for she was a stranger to me, though I
knew all the people for many miles around.

"I should not call it far, under usual circumstances," she answered,
"but now it is a long way. I live with my aunt, Ambrosia Moreno. Oh, I
can never get there."

"You must bathe the ankle here; there is a pool, and the rock beside it
makes a good seat," and gently lifting her, I placed her beside the
stream, which ran clear and cold from under the broad leaves. Without
any show of false modesty, she did as I directed, and having saturated
my handkerchief, I