ther with all the others,
its life as a mission, and the province itself torn from the grasp of
Mexico, to become a member of the greatest republic in the world--her
unheeding mind knew nothing of all this. Her favorite pastime, after the
railroad was built through the little town of San Gabriel, was to
wander down to the station, when time for the trains, which she quickly
learned, and to greet them with the snatches of song that remained with
her--sole vestige of her former life.

But death came at last to this poor wayfarer on life's journey, and she
was buried in the cemetery near the church, by the side of her husband
and her child, the place which had been, by common consent, reserved for
her in the sadly overcrowded little campo santo. Here lies all of
her that was mortal. We know she is well once more, with her mind and
memory, touched by divine healing, restored to her, and, we may be sure,
happy in the companionship of her loved ones.

Father Uria's Saints

"Therefore I went to Father Uria and told him your story. He was very
kind, and bade me write to you that you might trust him to find you
something to do if you should decide to come here. Have no fear; there
are not enough men at San Buenaventura to prevent a single man from
having all the work he may wish. Make haste and come. Do not delay.
Diego." The reader finished the letter, and there was a silence of some
minutes between the two, reader and listener. The former, a young man,
not much more than twenty-five years of age, had a moody expression on
his dark face. After reading the letter he waited for his companion to
speak. But Maria, his wife, appeared not to notice this and remained
silent. The two were sitting on the porch of a little adobe house on the
outskirts of the presidio town of Tubac, Mexico, a few, miles from the
coast of the Gulf of California. This had been the home of Benito's
parents, and since their death three years before, that of himself and
his wife. For a time they had been happy in their hard-working life, for
love lightened their toil; but toward the close of the second year in
their home they had suffered a series of reverses that sadly crippled
Benito's resources. First there had been a season of such heat and
drought that all their labor in the dozen acres which Benito cultivated
came to naught, and they gathered hardly more than enough to keep them
from starving before the next year's harvest. Then one of Benito's