desolate, and very dusty. The ramshackle wooden crosses stagger wildly
on the shapeless mounds; the dilapidated whitewashed railings, cracked
and blistered by the sun, look much as though they might be bleached
bones, tossed carelessly about; and the badly painted, misspelled
inscriptions yield up their brief announcements only to a very patient
reader. On the whole, depressing; but in a sleepy, careless way, like
the little tumbledown houses of the Mexicans, across the road; like,
also, the old Mission itself, yellowing and crumbling in the warm
California sun into early decay.

Walking slowly about among the humble mounds, my mind lazily weaving
from the names and dates of Seoelvedas and Argyellos and Yorbas, with
their romantic sound, a half-sad, half-delightful tapestry of fancy, I
found myself at one inclosure of an appearance so different that I
stopped to regard it particularly. It was the grave of a poor person,
clearly, and not in that way noteworthy, for poverty was the air of the
whole place. But it was carefully fenced with a high white railing;
there were fresh flowers upon it; and it was evident that affectionate
hands tended it. The short inscription, translated from its Spanish,
recorded--

Ysabel, wife of Ramon Enriquez,
born July 20, 1875: died October 23, 1893
Much Moved

Eighteen years old, married, and dead! a sad strand of color this, to
run into my tapestry, gay with silver lace, coquettish fans, and
high-heeled Spanish slippers. Eighteen years old, married, and dead; and
muy querida, much beloved! My thoughts stayed behind, as I moved on, and
the words, with their soft inflection, would recur dreamily to me, again