came there, he said not a word to anyone, but went straight to his little whitewashed room that opened off the courtyard colonnade. Sitting down at the square table before the recessed window, he took out a sheet of coarse, grayish white paper; and, dipping his quill in the old carved silver inkstand, wrote the following letter in a firm hand:

"Hijo Mío:

"When this comes to your hand, leave everything, and come to San Juan Capistrano at once. Why, I cannot explain here; but I think you will not be sorry hereafter. I have a very important message for you, and I would that you lingered not at all, but made whatever speed possible.

"May the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, be with you.

"Padre Vicente Artillaga." With great deliberation, the priest dried the ink and folded the paper. He traced the superscription in his precise, Spanish hand; then, heating a stick of dark red wax in the flame of a candle that burned before the Christ in the niche by the window, he sealed the paper. The letter was finished and ready to send. With care, Padre Vicente placed it on the corner of the table.

For a moment the priest looked out through

the rose-vines as if he saw someone a great way beyond them; but the corridor outside was deserted. A strange expression crossed his face. Lifting to his lips the fingers that the hand of Rafaela had touched, he kissed them passionately. Then he hid his face in his hands on the table where the picture of Rafaela had lain, and sobbed as if his heart would break.

CHAPTER XVII.

The Cloister Gate

CLEAR DAY at that season of the

A®

year in Alta California when winter drifts almost imperceptibly into spring. A gentle breath of wind urging lazily before it masses of cloud as soft and white as a seagull's breast; green hills and fields sown with blue and royal purple and red-gold; wide stretches of orchard fragrant under a gentlytossing foam of wonderful pink and white bloom; the cheerful crackle of flocking blackbirds and the liquid note of a meadowlark; new life everywhere-new life rejoicing in its own strength, new life rejoicing in the worldold call to a new love. Late on the afternoon of such a day as this, Miguel rode into San Juan Capistrano on the King's Highway, and cared not at all for the glory of field or hill or sky. The blue of heaven might have been hidden behind lowering clouds, the blooming fields wrapped in gray rain, the birds silent; he would not have cared at all. Last spring he had galloped madly southward on the King's Highway, his head awhirl with joy, his heart on fire. This spring he rode back at a

walk, and the weary feet of his crawling mount were not heavier than his heart.

man

At the Mission gate, a little group of Mexican cavalrymen were bickering with a crowd of Indians over a basket of fish. The Mexicans glanced curiously at the tall, young astride the gray horse, but the Indians made way for him respectfully. They knew Don Miguel de Dios Artillaga, but it was evident that they were surprised to see him here. Though courteous, Miguel made short work of his greetings to the Indians; and, giving his horse into the hands of Juanito, he made his way into the Mission courtyard. Old Pablo, leaning on his stick in the afternoon sun, hobbled forward to meet him.

"Glory be to God!" wheezed the old man. "I had thought never to see Don Miguel more!"

"Dear Pablo," answered Miguel gently, "what I have come for, Dios sabe! Pablo, do you know where Padre Vicente is?"

"Sí, Don Miguel, sí," whispered old Pablo in his husky voice. "The good padre is in the almond orchard to look at the trees. He-"

But before the old Indian could finish, Miguel was crossing the courtyard. The dim eyes of old Pablo followed the young man

wistfully until he passed under an archway and was gone.

White and faintly pink like sea-spray in the pale rose of sunset, a delicate foam of bloom filled all the almond orchard with the pungent odor of fresh honey. The bees hummed lazily in the trees, and Padre Vicente, walking in the orchard, looked up to where their glistening wings flashed among the flowering branches. The promised yield was great; in the almond orchard the harvests were not yet over. The trees would go on blossoming and bearing fruit until they died or were cut down. Was it not also the will of the good God that His priest should remain faithful to the end?

"Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life."

As if he would search the heart of the flowers, Padre Vicente reached out his hand and drew a blossom-loaded branch toward him. The long, brown sleeve of his robe caught on a twig, and a shower of soft, white petals fluttered down, lodging on the priest's shoulders and in the folds of his robe. Then he heard a footfall on the ground behind him.

"Padre Vicente !" cried Miguel, and cast his arms about the priest's neck as he used to do when a child.

"Miguelito mío!" Almost unconsciously the