in the year when the Mission was secularized, but my father knew it in
its glory and used to tell me many stories about the good old padres."

Seeing the interest in our faces, the dark eyes brightened and he patted
the thick adobe wall affectionately. "This church was only a small part
of the Mission in those days. The buildings formed an inner quadrangle
and two sides of an outer one, all a beehive of industry. There were the
work rooms of the Indians, where blankets and cloth were woven; great
vats for trying out tallow and curing hides, and also huge storehouses
for grain and other foodstuffs, all built and cared for by the Indians."

"Quite a change from their lazy roving life," suggested the Easterner.

"Still the padres were not hard taskmasters," insisted the stranger.
"The work lasted only from four to six hours a day and the evenings were
devoted to games and dancing. All were required to attend religious
services, however, and at the sound of the Angelus, they gathered within
these walls. There was no sleeping through long prayers in those days,"
he added with an amused smile, "for a swarthy disciple paced the aisles
and with a long pointed stick aroused the nodding ones, or quieted the
too hilarious spirits of the small boys."

"A good example for some of our modern churches," remarked my companion,
as we followed our guide to the altar at the end of the chapel. The
light streaming through the mullioned window fell full upon the carved
figure of a tonsured monk clad in a loose robe girdled with a cord. "It
is our father, St. Francis," explained the old man. "It was in
accordance with his direct wish that this Mission was founded."

"Yes?" questioned the skeptic.