gathered, but at the new, white cottage that Ramon Enriquez built, a
year ago, for his bride. Juan, merry and mischievous as a blue jay
generally, is sober as he hovers on the outskirts of the little group of
people. Again the six little girls are waiting, two and two, but they
carry white flowers, lilies, roses, and jessamine. Presently Marta
appears, a creeping, somber figure, black from head to foot.

The straggling group moves up the street, old Marta at the head, talking
to herself, and shaking her head. As they near the Mission the great
door opens, and the Padre comes out, followed by four young men, who
carry--alas! my heart tells me what they carry--the brightness and
lightness of the face and form of Ysabel Enriquez: and there lies upon
her breast a tiny baby form. Alas! muy querida! Ramon walks behind, and
looks neither to right nor left, as they take their place at the head of
the little procession. And so they go, up the white, dusty road, to the
campo santo.

Muy querida, muy querida, says the great bell: slower and slower, muy
querida, muy . . . and so, ceases.


The sun was going down, its warm light dying away up the ancient wall.
Far away sounded the faint thrumming of the mandolin in the cottage
across the road: the three Mexicans were still silently gambling.

Yes, it is a desolate little spot, the campo santo of San Gabriel[1].

[1] The foregoing sketch was written some short time ago, before
certain renovations were made about the cemetery which have changed the
"atmosphere" of the place. I confess to an unreasonable wish that God's