mission. Past willow-shaded lakes, through stunted live-oak groves,
the wedding cavalcade advances. The poverty of the "mozo" admits
of a horse. Even the humblest admirer of Don Miguel to-day is in
the saddle. No one in California walks.

With courtly grace the warrior rides by his bride. Juanita Castro
is a true Spanish senorita. Blest with the beauty of youth and the
modesty of the Castilian, the Rose of Alameda has the blush of her
garden blossoms on her virgin cheek. She walks a queen. She rides
as only the maids of Alta California can.

The shining white walls of the mission are near. Eager eyes watch
in the belfry whence the chimes proclaim the great event. To the
west the Coast Range hides the blue Pacific. Rolling sand hills
mask the Presidio. East and south the panorama of shore and mountain
frames the jewel of the West, fair San Francisco bay.

Soldiers, traders, dull-eyed Indians, and joyous retainers crowd
the approaches.

The cortege halts at the official residence. Soon the dark-eyed
bride is arrayed in her simple white robes. Attended by her friends,
Juanita enters the house of the Lord. Don Luis Castro supports the
bride, who meets at the altar her spouse. Priests and their trains
file in. The fateful words are said.

Then the girl-wife on her liege lord's arm enters the residence of
the Padres; a sumptuous California breakfast awaits the "gente de
razon."