antiago Argueello in the south. The black-robed scholars knelt
on one side of the dead, the novices on the other, the relatives and
friends behind. But art had perfected itself in the gallery above the
lower end of the chapel. This also was draped with black which seemed to
absorb, then shed forth again the mystic brilliance of the candles; and
kneeling, well apart, were the nuns in their ivory white robes and black
veils, their banded softened features as composed and peaceful as if
their own reward had come.

The Bishop and the priests read the Requiem Mass, the little organ
pealed the _De Profundis_ as if inspired; and when the imperious
triumphant music of Handel followed, Teresa's fresh young soprano
seemed, to her excited imagination, to soar to the gates of heaven
itself. When she looked down again the lights were dim in the incense,
her senses swam in the pungent odor of spices and gum. The Bishop was
walking about the catafalque casting holy water with a brush against the
coffin above. He walked about a second time swinging the heavy copper
censer, then pronounced the _Requiescat in pace_, "dismissing," as we
find inscribed in the convent records, "a tired soul out of all the
storms of life into the divine tranquillity of death."

The bier was again shouldered, the procession reformed, and marched,
still with lighted tapers and chanting softly, out into the cemetery of
the convent. It was a magnificent, clear night and as mild as spring.
Below the steep hill the little town of Benicia celebrated the eve of
Christmas with lights and noise. Beyond, the water sparkled like running
silver under the wide beams of the moon poised just above the peak of
Monte Diablo, the old volcano that towered high above this romantic and
beautiful country of water and tule lands, steep hillsides and canons,
rocky bluffs overhanging the straits. In spite of the faint discords
that rose from the town and the slow tolling of the convent bell, it was
a scene of lofty and primeval grandeur, a fit setting for the last
earthly scene of a woman whose lines had been cast in the wilderness,
but yet had found the calm and the strength and the peace of the old
mountain, with its dead and buried fires.

The grave closed, the mourners returned to the convent, but not in
order. At the door Teresa felt her arm taken possession of by a strong
hand with which she had had more than one disconcerting encounter.

"Let us walk," said Sister Maria Sal