stood like a sentinel guarding the religious life of the mission.

Father Uria had been pacing to and fro in front of the mission for more
than an hour, waiting impatiently for the expedition from Mexico, which
had been expected two days before, its regular time of arrival. It was
not at all unusual for these bands to be delayed three or four days, and
that without meeting with any accident on the way; but news from home
was infrequent to a degree that made an expedition to the province
awaited with almost unreasonable impatience. Mail, as well as everything
else, came usually by sea; but to send letters by the desert route was
by no means rare.

Father Uria was known to all his fraternity in the country for his
eccentricity. He was a small, rather stout man, about sixty years of
age, every one of which had left its mark upon him; for his had been a
life of toil surpassed by but few, even among those self-denying workers
in the Lord's vineyard. But the hardships of his life had not quenched
his jovial spirits, which were, indeed, irrepressible. A laughing
greeting for every one he met, Mexican or Indian, was his habit, one
that might have begotten a measure of contempt in the beholder, had the
Father not possessed a sternness, latent for the most part, it is true,
but which could, on occasion, be evoked to prop up the apparently
tottering respect due him. Father Uria was fond, too, of company, not
only for its own sake, but because it gave him an excuse for the
pleasures of the table, and, in especial, for enjoying the delights of
the wine made at Mission San Gabriel, and which was in demand by all the
missions. This was a weakness seldom indulged in, for the Father cared
not for imbibing this delectable liquid unless assisted by pleasant
company; and occasions when this could be had were rare. Let not the
reader infer from this that our respected fraile was guilty of drinking