It was here that the refectory windows of the Mission of San Carmel had for years looked upon the reverse of that monotonous picture presented to the sea.  It was here that the trade winds, shorn of their fury and strength in the heated, oven-like air that rose from the valley, lost their weary way in the tangled recesses of the wooded slopes, and breathed their last at the foot of the stone cross before the Mission.  It was on the crest of those slopes that the fog halted and walled in the sun-illumined plain below; it was in this plain that limitless fields of grain clothed the fat adobe soil; here the Mission garden smiled over its hedges of fruitful vines, and through the leaves of fig and gnarled pear trees:  and it was here that Father Pedro had lived for fifty years, found the prospect good, and had smiled also.

Father Pedro’s smile was rare.  He was not a Las Casas, nor a Junipero Serra, but he had the deep seriousness of all disciples laden with the responsible wording of a gospel not their own.  And his smile had an ecclesiastical as well as a human significance, the pleasantest object in his prospect being the fair and curly head of his boy acolyte and chorister, Francisco, which appeared among the vines, and his sweetest pastoral music, the high soprano humming of a chant with which the boy accompanied his gardening.

Suddenly the acolyte’s chant changed to a cry of terror.  Running rapidly to Father Pedro’s side, he grasped his sotana, and even tried to hide his curls among its folds.

“’St! ’st!” said the Padre, disengaging himself with some impatience.  “What new alarm is this?  Is it Luzbel hiding among our Catalan vines, or one of those heathen Americanos from Monterey?  Speak!”

“Neither, holy father,” said the boy, the color struggling back into his pale cheeks, and an apologetic, bashful smile lighting his clear eyes.  “Neither; but oh! such a gross, lethargic toad!  And it almost leaped upon me.”

“A toad leaped upon thee!” repeated the good father with evident vexation.  “What next?  I tell thee, child, those foolish fears are most unmeet for thee, and must be overcome, if necessary, with prayer and penance.  Frightened by a toad!  Blood of the Martyrs!  ’Tis like any foolish girl!”

Father Pedro stopped and coughed.

“I am saying that no Christian child should shrink from any of God’s harmless creatures.  And only last week thou wast disdainful of poor Murieta’s pig, forgetting that San Antonio himself did elect one his faithful companion, even in glory.”

“Yes, but it was so fat, and so uncleanly, holy father,” replied the young acolyte, “and it smelt so.”

“Smelt so?” echoed the father doubtfully.  “Have a care, child, that this is not luxuriousness of the senses.  I have noticed of late you gather overmuch of roses and syringa, excellent in their way and in moderation, but still not to be compared with the flower of Holy Church, the lily.”