bet anything. Ah, be can play! Yes, and Marta is coming first with the
holy water."

Down the road comes, again, a procession. One half of the village is in
it, and the other half views it with animated admiration from doorways
and verandas. Marta, her old black dress for once cast aside, arrayed in
yellow and red, leads the van, as she has at every wedding for twenty
years. Following her come three musicians; Pedro, in the center, his
gray, thin hair straggling over the collar of his well-brushed long
black coat, with young Vicente and Arturo, the bridegroom's brothers,
one on either side, accompanying Pedro's weird, thin-blooded strain with
thrumming mandolins. Next come, by two and two, six little girls, pretty
as angels, with little wild sunflowers in their glossy tresses, and
carrying, with conscious pride, large bunches of red roses. And here are
the bride and bridegroom, Ysabel Alvarado, the flower of San Gabriel,
and Ramon Enriquez, to whose proud, dark face hers is often lifted with
happy smiles at the words of admiration and friendly wishes that reach
their ears.

Now, Juan, ring your loudest, and no one will complain: Muy querida, muy
querida . . .


It is the big bell, only, of the Mission, that is ringing now, the one
in the top embrasure of the arched campanario. It rings steady and
clear, as Gregorio always makes it, but slowly, and the sound that
trembles heavily out upon the heat-laden air settles down upon the
village like a noonday shadow. Again there are people gathered for a
simple procession, and horses are tied to the posts along the street.
But this time it is not at old Marta's house that the people are,