old stock again."

They turned their backs on the beach and in the tiny main street bought
meat, vegetables, and half a dozen eggs. Billy had to drag Saxon away
from the window of a fascinating shop where were iridescent pearls of
abalone, set and unset.

"Abalones grow here, all along the coast," Billy assured her; "an' I'll
get you all you want. Low tide's the time."

"My father had a set of cuff-buttons made of abalone shell," she said.
"They were set in pure, soft gold. I haven't thought about them for
years, and I wonder who has them now."

They turned south. Everywhere from among the pines peeped the quaint
pretty houses of the artist folk, and they were not prepared, where the
road dipped to Carmel River, for the building that met their eyes.

"I know what it is," Saxon almost whispered. "It's an old Spanish
Mission. It's the Carmel Mission, of course. That's the way the
Spaniards came up from Mexico, building missions as they came and
converting the Indians."

"Until we chased them out, Spaniards an' Indians, whole kit an'
caboodle," Billy observed with calm satisfaction.

"Just the same, it's wonderful," Saxon mused, gazing at the big,
half-ruined adobe structure. "There is the Mission Dolores, in San
Francisco, but it's smaller than this and not as old."

Hidden from the sea by low hillocks, forsaken by human being and human
habitation, the church of sun-baked clay and straw and chalk-rock stood
hushed and breathless in the midst of the adobe ruins which once had
housed its worshiping thousands. The spirit of the place descended upon
Saxon and Billy, and they walked softly, speaking in whispers, almost
afraid to go in through the open ports. There was neither priest nor
worshiper, yet they found all the evidences of use, by a congregation
which Billy judged must be small from the number of the benches. Inter
they climbed the earthquake-racked belfry, noting the hand-hewn timbers;
and in the gallery, discovering the pure quality of their voices, Saxon,
trembling at her own temerity, softly sang the opening bars of "Jesus
Lover of My Soul." Delighted with the result, she leaned over the
railing, gradually increasing her voice to its full strength as she
sang:

"Jesus, Lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly, While the nearer
waters roll, While the tempest still is nigh. Hide me, O my Saviour,
hide, Till the storm of life is past; Safe into the haven guide And
receive my soul at last."

Billy lean