e at ease, while revolt was steadily
kindling beneath the schooled and placid mask of the Padre.

Yet still the strangeness of his situation in such a remote,
resourceless place came back as a marvel into the young man's lively
mind. Twenty years in prison, he thought, and hardly aware of it! And
he glanced at the silent priest. A man so evidently fond of music, of
theaters, of the world, to whom pressed flowers had meant something
once--and now contented to bleach upon these wastes! Not even desirous
of a brief holiday, but finding an old organ and some old operas enough
recreation! "It is his age, I suppose," thought Gaston. And then the
notion of himself when he should be sixty occurred to him, and he spoke.

"Do you know, I do not believe," said he, "that I should ever reach such
contentment as yours."

"Perhaps you will," said Padre Ignacio, in a low voice.

"Never!" declared the youth. "It comes only to the few, I am sure."

"Yes. Only to the few," murmured the Padre.

"I am certain that it must be a great possession," Gaston continued;
"and yet--and yet--dear me! life is a splendid thing!"

"There are several ways to live it," said the Padre.

"Only one for me!" cried Gaston. "Action, men, women, things--to be
there, to be known, to play a part, to sit in the front seats; to have
people tell one another, 'There goes Gaston Villere!' and to deserve
one's prominence. Why, if I was Padre of Santa Ysabel del Mar for twenty
years--no! for one year--do you know what I should have done? Some day
it would have been too much for me. I should have left these savages
to a pastor nearer their own level, and I should have ridden down this
canyon upon my mule, and stepped on board the barkentine, and gone
back to my proper sphere. You will understand, sir, that I am far from
venturing to make any personal comment. I am only thinking what a world
of difference lies between natures that can feel as alike as we do upon
so many subjects. Why, not since leaving New Orleans have I met any one
with whom I could talk, except of the weather and the brute interests
common to us all. That such a one as you should be here is like a
dream."

"But it is not a dream," said the Padre.

"And, sir--pardon me if I do say this--are you not wasted at Santa
Ysabel del Mar? I have seen the priests at the other missions. They
are--the sort of good men that I expected. But are you needed to save
such souls as these?"

"There is no aristoc