were the most prominent of the plants, brought from Mexico and Spain,
reminding him of his old home; and interspersed with these were a goodly
number of vegetables, for this garden was not wholly for pleasure, but
served as a source of supply for the Father's, table. Paths there were
none. Every spot of ground, where there was nothing growing, was hard
and smooth like a path, baked as it was by the sun after every rain. At
first the Father had tried to grow grass in some parts of his garden,
but soon gave it up on account of the constant attention it needed, and
disliking the tough wiry grass, native to the region, he trained his
plants to cover the ground, letting them spread and wander much at their
will. Here was his rest from the many and varied labors in a Nueva
California mission; and here he was to be found when at leisure, seeing
if his plants were given the proper attention by his gardener, studying
changes from time to time in their arrangement, or wandering about, now
here, now there, with eyes bent on the ground, meditating on his duties,
or gazing off to the distant horizon, and dreaming of his early life in
his boyhood home.

But this morning Father Zalvidea was thinking of anything but. Spain, or
even of his garden, as he passed slowly back and forth among the,
plants. His thoughts were occupied with the instructions he had received
the night before. One must put one's self in the Father's place, and
know something of his life and surroundings, to appreciate the reason
for his dislike to the proposed change. The missions in Nueva California
were lonely, isolated spots of civilization in the midst of many Indian
tribes. Each one, twenty to fifty miles distant from the neighboring
mission on either side, lived, in a great measure, solely for itself, as
it was dependent, in most things, on itself alone. There was
communication, of course, between the different missions, with the
president at Monterey, and with Mexico; but, occasionally, weeks would