toiling from morning until night with untutored neophytes and striving
to hammer something of civilization into their heads - now he was to be
removed. He had seen this very thing threatening for many days, but had
hoped and prayed that it might not be; he had mustered up boldness
enough to address President Tapis at Monterey, beseeching that he might
be continued at San Gabriel, bringing to bear the weight of all he had
done, and the flourishing condition the mission was in under his charge.
It was of no avail. The night before, he had received a letter by the
post messenger on his way to San Diego, charging the Father to prepare
for removal to Mission San Juan Capistrano, his future field of work.
After a sleepless night of vain repining, he had risen early and
wandered out into his garden, back of the church, his favorite resort
when in a meditative mood, or when he wished to escape intrusion of
whatever sort.

Father Zalvidea's garden was a warm, sunny place, filled to overflowing
with flowers and plants and trees. It covered nearly an acre of ground,
bounded on one side by the church, on part of the adjoining side by the
Father's house, close by the church; from here the ground sloped
gradually to the west, leaving open to view the San Gabriel Mountains,
towering high above the plain. The Father had planned this garden soon
after coming to the mission, and had laid it out with all the talent of
a landscape artist. In the corner bounded by the church and his house,
he had planted most of the trees - olive, lemon and peach, and a few
palms - disposing them skillfully for shade, while at the same time
leaving vistas of the adobe church, golden yellow in the sunlight;
beyond were placed the flowering plants - roses in immense numbers, a
great variety of lilies of different tints, a few century plants, one of
them with its huge flower stalk high in air, and a large passion vine,
trained along the adobe wall enclosing the garden on the west. These