turns aside to examine the resources of his domain. The degraded
character of the Indians near him prevents any knowledge of the
great interior. They do not speak the language of his semi-civilized
mission laborers from the Coast Range. They cannot communicate
with the superior tribes of the North and East. All their dialects
are different.

Vaguely float in his memory old stories of the giant trees and the
great gorge of the Yosemite. He will visit yet the glistening and
secret summits of the Sierras.

Weeks run into months. Comfort and plenty reign at Lagunitas. With
his wife by his side, Miguel cons his occasional despatches. He
promises the Seflora that the spring shall see a chapel erected.
When he makes the official visit to the Annual Council, he will
bring a padre, at once friend, spiritual father, and physician. It
is the first sign of a higher life--the little chapel of Mariposa.

Winter winds sway the giant pines of the forests. Rains of heaven
swell the San Joaquin. The summer golden brown gives way to the
velvety green of early spring.

Juanita meekly tells her beads. With her women she waits the day
when the bell shall call to prayer in Mariposa.

Wandering by Lagunitas, the wife strays in fancy to far lands
beyond the ocean. The books of her girlhood have given her only a
misty idea of Europe. The awe with which she has listened to the
Padres throws a glamour of magic around these recitals of that
fairy world beyond the seas.