the church of the San Gabriel Mission. All other buildings of the
institution have disappeared; but this old edifice remains, and,
unless purposely destroyed by man, may stand here for five centuries
more, since its enormous walls are five feet thick, and the mortar
used in their construction has rendered them almost as solid as if
hewn from rock. As I descended, at the station a quarter of a mile
away, a little barefooted Mexican boy approached and shyly offered me
his hand. "Are you the Father," he asked?

"No," I said, "I am not the Father, but I have come to see the
church; can you show it to me?"

"But Padre Joaquin said I was to meet a Father."

"Well," I answered, "I am the only passenger who has come by this
train, so you had better walk back with me."

[Illustration: SAN GABRIEL MISSION CHURCH.]

The Mexican boys seem to be the best part of what Mexico has left in
California. This lad, for example, was attending an American school,
and appeared bright and ambitious, though so extremely courteous and
respectful that he seemed almost timid. The little hut in which he
lived was opposite the church, and he seemed perfectly familiar with
the sacred structure. "See," he said, pointing to some mutilated
wooden statues in the poor, scantily furnished sacristy, "here are
some images which cannot be used, they are so broken, and here are
more," he added, opening some drawers and displaying four or five
smaller figures in various stages of dilapidation. Thus, for some
time he continued to call my attention to different curious relics