thoughtful and
attentive. Then he rose.

"I am going over to the Mission," he said, "to see Father Sarria. I have
not seen him yet."

"How about the sheep?"

"The dogs will keep them in hand, and I shall not be gone long. Besides
that, I have a boy here to help. He is over yonder on the other side of
the herd. We can't see him from here."

Presley wondered at the heedlessness of leaving the sheep so slightly
guarded, but made no comment, and the two started off across the field
in the direction of the Mission church.

"Well, yes, it is there--your epic," observed Vanamee, as they went
along. "But why write? Why not LIVE in it? Steep oneself in the heat of
the desert, the glory of the sunset, the blue haze of the mesa and the
canyon."

"As you have done, for instance?"

Vanamee nodded.

"No, I could not do that," declared Presley; "I want to go back, but not
so far as you. I feel that I must compromise. I must find expression.
I could not lose myself like that in your desert. When its vastness
overwhelmed me, or its beauty dazzled me, or its loneliness weighed down
upon me, I should have to record my impressions. Otherwise, I should
suffocate."

"Each to his own life," observed Vanamee.

The Mission of San Juan, built of brown 'dobe blocks, covered with
yellow plaster, that at many points had dropped away from the walls,
stood on the crest of a low rise of the ground, facing to the south. A
covered colonnade, paved with round, worn bricks, from whence opened the
doors of the abandoned cells, once used by the monks, adjoined it on the
left. The roof was of tiled half-cylinders, split longitudinally, and
laid in alternate rows, now concave, now convex. The main body of the
church itself was at right angles to the colonnade, and at the point of
intersection rose the belfry tower, an ancient campanile, where swung
the three cracked bells, the gift of the King of Spain. Beyond the
church was the Mission garden and the graveyard that overlooked the Seed
ranch in a little hollow beyond.

Presley and Vanamee went down the long colonnade to the last door next
the belfry tower, and Vanamee pulled the leather thong that hung from
a hole in the door, setting a little bell jangling somewhere in the
interior. The place, but for this noise, was shrouded in a Sunday
stillness, an absolute repose. Only at intervals, one heard the trickle
of the unseen fountain, and the liquid cooing of doves in the garden.

Father Sarri