"Ramon had best take care. Such flowers are not to be plucked every day
as my Ysabelita." And it is no wonder that when Ysabel appears at the
door, carrying carefully upright the waxen, fragrant spire of white
lilies for San Gabriel which the Padre has sent to Los Angeles to
procure, the excited expectation of the village and its visitors
releases itself in a prolonged "Ah!" that nearly makes her laugh
outright with happy pride. Least of all is it any wonder that Ramon
Enriquez, gazing with all his soul, says, under his breath, "She is like
an angel of heaven; yes, truly an angel is she, my Ysabel."

The bells of the Mission ring happily, happily, as the little procession
passes into the church: Muy querida, muy querida.


Again the bells are swinging and ringing in the hot, sunny air. But it
is not old Gregorio who rings now, one maybe sure, so irregular are the
strokes--loud, soft, quick, slow--as if the green old bells were
actually out of breath with laughing. No, Gregorio has rung for thirty,
yes, nearly forty years, and his ringing is as steady as the pendulum of
the Padre's great clock. Ah, it is Juan, young scapegrace! that rings,
and out of breath, truly, is he; so that for once he is ready to obey
when admonished by the Padre to leave off. "What a noise thou art
making, Juanito! I think San Gabriel will be stopping his ears. Run up
the choir steps, boy, and call to me if thou seest them coming."
Willingly enough the bare-legged urchin raced away, and, perched like an
acrobat on the narrow rail, holding by a trailing branch of the pepper
tree, shielded his merry black eyes as he gazed up the road. His slender
stock of patience was nearly exhausted before the sound of music reached
his ears, and started his feet shuffling. "Padre, oh, Padre," he cried,
"they are coming. I can hear the violin: it is Pedro that plays, I would