"The whole world is ringing with it,"
he said.

"But Santa Ysabel del Mar is a long way from the whole world," said
Padre Ignazio.

"Indeed it would not appear to be so," returned young Gaston. "I think
the Comedie Francaise must be round the corner."

A thrill went through the priest at the theatre's name. "And have you
been long in America?" he asked.

"Why, always--except two years of foreign travel after college."

"An American!" said the surprised padre, with perhaps a flavor of
disappointment in his voice. "But no Americans who have yet come this
way have been--have been"--he veiled the too blunt expression of his
thought--"have been familiar with 'The Huguenots,'" he finished, making
a slight bow.

Villere took his under-meaning. "I come from New Orleans," he returned.
"And in New Orleans there live many of us who can recognize a--who can
recognize good music wherever we meet it." And he made a slight bow in
his turn.

The padre laughed outright with pleasure, and laid his hand upon the
young man's arm. "You have no intention of going away tomorrow, I
trust?" said he.

"With your leave," answered Gaston, "I will have such an intention no
longer."

It was with the air and gait of mutual understanding that the two now
walked on together towards the padre's door. The guest was twenty-five,
the host sixty.

"And have you been in America long?" inquired Gaston.

"Twenty years."

"And at Santa Ysabel how long?"

"Twenty years."

"I should have thought," said Gaston, looking lightly at the empty
mountains, "that now and again you might have wished to travel."

"Were I your age," murmured Padre Ignazio, "it might be so."

The evening had now ripened to the long after-glow of sunset. The sea
was the purple of grapes, and wine colored hues flowed among the high
shoulders of the mountains.

"I have seen a sight like this," said Gaston, "between Granada and
Malaga."

"So you know Spain!" said the padre.

Often he had thought of this resemblance, but never heard it told to
him before. The courtly proprietor of San Fernando, and the other
patriarchal rancheros with whom he occasionally exchanged visits across
the wilderness, knew hospitality and inherited gentle manners, sending
to Europe for silks and laces to give their daughters; but their eyes
had not looked upon Granada, and their ears had never listened to
"William Tell."

"It is quite singular," pursued Gaston, "how one nook in the world wil