uriantly than at the Presidio. The walls, like the
houses, were white, and on those of Don Juan
Moraga, a cousin of Dona Ignacia Arguello, the
roses had been trained to form a border along the
top in a fashion that reminded Rezanov of the pink
edged walls of Fiesole.

The white red-tiled church and the long line of
rooms adjoining were built of adobe with no effort
at grandeur, but with a certain noble simplicity of
outline that harmonized not only with the lofty re-
serve of the hills but with the innocent hope of creat-
ing a soul in the lowest of human bipeds. The
Indians of San Francisco were as immedicable as
they were hideous; but the fathers belabored them
with sticks and heaven with prayer, and had so far
succeeded that if as yet they had sown piety no
higher than the knees, they had trained some twelve
hundred pairs of hands to useful service.

On the right was a graveyard, with little in it as
yet but rose trees; behind the church and the many
spacious rooms built for the consolation of virtue
in the wilderness was a large building surrounding
a court. Girls and young widows occupied the cells
on the north side, and the work rooms on the east,
while the youths, under the sharp eye of a lay
brother, were opposite. All lived a life of unwill-
ing industry: cleaning and combing wool, spinning,
weaving, manufacturing chocolate, grinding corn