ng emptily against the wall. Father Pedro
started and trembled; it seemed as if the spiritual life of the child
had slipped away with its garments.

In that slight chill, which even in the hottest days in California
always invests any shadow cast in that white sunlight, Father Pedro
shivered in the corridor. Passing again into the garden, he followed
in fancy the wayfaring figure of Francisco, saw the child arrive at
the rancho of Don Juan, and with the fateful blindness of all dreamers
projected a picture most unlike the reality. He followed the pilgrims
even to San Jose, and saw the child deliver the missive which gave
the secret of her sex and condition to the Father Superior. That the
authority at San Jose might dissent with the Padre of San Carmel,
or decline to carry out his designs, did not occur to the one-idea'd
priest. Like all solitary people, isolated from passing events, he made
no allowances for occurrences outside of his routine. Yet at this moment
a sudden thought whitened his yellow cheek. What if the Father Superior
deemed it necessary to impart the secret to Francisco? Would the child
recoil at the deception, and, perhaps, cease to love him? It was the
first time, in his supreme selfishness, he had taken the acolyte's
feelings into account. He had thought of him only as one owing implicit
obedience to him as a temporal and spiritual guide.

"Reverend Father!"

He turned impatiently. It was his muleteer, Jose. Father Pedro's sunken
eye brightened.

"Ah, Jose! Quickly, then; hast thou found Sanchicha?"

"Truly, your reverence! And I have brought her with me, just as she is;
though if your reverence make more of her than to fill the six-foot hole
and say a prayer over her, I'll give the mule that brought her here for
food for the bull's horns. She neither hears nor speaks, but whether
from weakness or sheer wantonness, I know not."

"Peace, then! and let thy tongue take example from hers. Bring her with
thee into the sacristy and attend without. Go!"

Father Pedro watched the disappearing figure of the muleteer and
hurriedly swept his thin, dry hand, veined and ribbed like a brown
November leaf, over his stony forehead, with a sound that seemed almost
a rustle. Then he suddenly stiffened his fingers over his breviary,
dropped his arms perpendicularly before him, and with a rigid step
returned to the corridor and passed into the sacristy.

For a moment in the half-darkness the room seemed to be e