there beneath the great, gray vault and see their breath ascending in
the cold air, bearing like incense their prayers to Heaven, and hear the
subdued strains of the organ, I feel that it is not the music of this
world, and my heart is moved and I join in the grand hymn, mingling my
soft Latin words with their glorious German.

The priest has passed down the aisle and sprinkled the Holy Water over
us with the aspergil, the boys bearing the censers, preceding him have
passed from sight with him behind the dark curtain at the Chancel door;
there is a shuffling noise of the departing worshipers and I am alone.

Far away, before the golden Altar hangs a taper which throws a red glow
into all the darkness, it is the Sacred Heart of Jesus, ever burning
amid the gloom of sin. As my eyes become accustomed to the dim light, I
can discern a female figure robed in gray, standing before the shrine of
the Virgin, I cannot see the face though I often try, but whenever she
becomes aware of my presence, she leaves the cathedral by the little
door to the right which opens into the small court. This occurs every
night, and though I have often tried to meet her by going out by the
other door and around the front, I have as yet, not succeeded.

But enough of that now; today as I returned from my walk, I saw as I was
crossing the bridge one of the first Californian women I have seen for
a long time; I know that she was Californian or Mexican for there was
more life in the eye than we see in the quiet, expressionless beauties
of the rest of the world. I do not know why I must ever have this face
in my mind since I met the fair one on the bridge; she looked at me
directly in the eyes, and I feel sure that I have met her sometime
before. I know the face; there is a strange drooping about the eyelids,
which to me adds a charm to the whole appearance. I do wish I could