GIFT OF 
 
 !<( 0-0 
 
 
 // 
 ^ *^^& 
 
 rrji 
 
 EX L1BRIS 
 
 
THE 
 
 PADRE S LITTLE 
 CARETAKER 
 
 ( Second Edition ) 
 
 A Romance of the Carmel Mission 
 
 BY 
 
 SARAH RITCHIE HEATH 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO, CAL. 
 
 THE JAMES H. BARRY COMPANY 
 
 1913 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1913, 
 
 BY 
 SARAH RITCHIE HEATH 
 
TO 
 
 MY SISTERS 
 
 37680G 
 
THE PADRE S LITTLE 
 CARETAKER 
 
 Her name was Carmelita, as had 
 been her mother s and grandmother s 
 before her. It could hardly have 
 been otherwise, for, like them, she 
 had first seen the light of day in the 
 little cottage under the pear trees 
 which Padre Junipero Serra, of 
 blessed memory, had planted with 
 his own hand, at Carmel his favor 
 ite mission. For generations her 
 mother s family had handed down 
 from daughter to daughter the office 
 of caretaker of the church and its 
 holy relics. And Carmelita had al 
 ways known that one day her turn 
 would come. She would marry, of 
 course, when old enough; but mar 
 riage had never interfered with this 
 sacred office nor with much else in 
 the Carmel valley. Pedro, Carme- 
 lita s father, had herded cattle in the 
 adjacent meadows, and fished in the 
 bay of Carmelo. But one day 
 
 5 
 
when Carmelita was but seven he 
 was drowned. After that the small 
 stipend of the caretaker half of 
 each dime charged for admission 
 became the sole support of the widow 
 and child, and visitors were scarce, 
 except on those occasions when the 
 guest at del Monte made the pil 
 grimage. 
 
 Carmelita had been cradled in the 
 sunshine, near the stairway leading to 
 the belfry. As soon as she could tod 
 dle she had gravely pattered after the 
 strangers whom her mother preceded 
 up the stair and through the church; 
 thus early fitting herself for the 
 duties which were soon to devolve 
 upon her. She was a shy, silent 
 child, but in many respects pre 
 cocious ; blessed with a retentive 
 memory, riotous imagination and 
 keen powers of observation. 
 
 One day, when sightseers were 
 few, Carmelita suggested a game. 
 
 "Let s play," she said to her 
 mother, "that I am the caretaker and 
 you the visitor. You must ask me 
 all sorts of silly questions, and I ll 
 
 6 
 
show you the church and the relics." 
 She played her part so well that 
 on the following day her mother 
 entrusted her with the keys. For a 
 time the woman and child shared the 
 office, but the child brought more 
 dimes to the family exchequer than 
 did the woman, and gradually the 
 full responsibility fell on the little 
 girl s shoulders no heavy burden, 
 however, even for a child of ten. 
 
 When the little caretaker was not 
 on duty, she sought playmates among 
 the swallows, who built their nests 
 in the eaves of the church, and 
 among the squirrels and lizards, 
 which, like herself, played hide-and- 
 seek with the shadows, lurking in 
 the ruins of the old adobes. And, 
 like them, she lived in blissful ignor 
 ance of the world, the flesh and the 
 devil until, one day, she ate of the 
 tree of knowledge. 
 
 She received the fatal apple at the 
 hand of a stranger as beautiful as 
 the angel Gabriel. When she had 
 eaten, she looked back upon her child 
 hood as a thing of the past although 
 
 7 
 
she had counted less than fifteen 
 summers. 
 
 She was leaning against a frag 
 ment of adobe a blackened ruin of 
 the dwellings of the padres when 
 Bedford first saw her. 
 
 She did not observe his approach, 
 for her eyes were steadily fixed on 
 Point Lobos, on the further side of 
 Carmelo Bay. She was idly dream 
 ing of what she could not have told. 
 But Bedford was a poet, and as he cu 
 riously studied the unconscious face of 
 the dreamer, he knew, by the divine 
 instinct within himself, that she too 
 saw the wonderful scheme of color 
 in the blue of the Monterey sky, the 
 deeper blue of its mountains, and the 
 yet deeper blue of its waters. He 
 knew that she was listening to a 
 song in the humming of the bees; in 
 the murmuring of the waves on the 
 white sands a song of love, perhaps, 
 for some country swain who could 
 see in a yellow primrose, "a yellow 
 primrose . . . nothing more." 
 
 " After all," he reflected, "I believe 
 she is but a child. But when she is 
 
 8 
 
old enough, I suppose she ll marry a 
 lazy Mexican, or" he studied the 
 girl more narrowly "an Indian." 
 
 The small, willowy figure and olive 
 skin might have been heritages from 
 either Mexican or Indian. The color 
 of her far-seeing eyes was hidden by 
 heavy lashes; but the hair, which fell 
 unfettered by pin or ribbon, like a 
 straight, black mantle to the hem of 
 her frock, inclined him to the belief 
 that she was an Indian. 
 
 As a natural sequence to this 
 thought, his mind reverted to the 
 ruins around him. He tried to pic 
 ture to himself the church as it was 
 more than a century ago, thronged by 
 Indians attracted thither by the lights 
 on the altar, the perfume of burning 
 incense, the sweet-toned bells, the 
 chanted Te Deum, and, perhaps above 
 all, by the rich vestments of the pad 
 res. But, standing outside the closed 
 door, he found this sudden transition 
 from the nineteenth century too se 
 vere a strain upon his imagination. 
 
 Hat in hand, he approached Car- 
 melita. The sunlight turned his hair 
 
 9 
 
into rings of bronze, and touched 
 hers with a purple light, like the 
 bloom on the grape. Their eyes met ; 
 his as blue as the wide, cloudless sky 
 hers as black as the night which 
 must inevitably follow day. 
 
 For a moment he stood bare 
 headed before her, as if in the pres 
 ence of a princess. It was a moment 
 too long. He had crept into her 
 dream of rapture, and the vague es 
 sence shaped itself. 
 
 Bedford signified his wish to en 
 ter the church. Carmelita, still more 
 than half in the clouds, mechanical 
 ly turned the key in the lock and 
 preceded him through the low broad 
 doorway. He registered. She then 
 led him to the baptistry, where she 
 exhibited in a perfunctory way a 
 comparatively modern baptismal font, 
 carved out of white onyx. He was 
 disappointed. 
 
 "This is not the original font," he 
 said; "that was carved out of a solid 
 piece of sandstone. What s become 
 of it?" 
 
 Carmelita shook her head. 
 
 10 
 
"I don t know," she answered. 
 "Nobody ever asked me that before. 
 Maybe they ve taken it to San Carlos, 
 in Monterey where they ve taken 
 nearly everything." 
 
 Her momentary self-consciousness 
 had passed; her tongue was loosened. 
 This was the one real grievance in 
 her placid life. In some respects hu 
 man nature is the same the world 
 over, and craves sympathy as the only 
 balm for a real or fancied injury. 
 This, Bedford gave in full measure. 
 
 In her mother s eyes the case had 
 its sordid aspect, for at San Carlos 
 the entrance fee was a quarter of a 
 dollar, and only a dime at Carmel. 
 This did not trouble Carmelita, who 
 had little use for money. But her 
 spirit rose in indignation against 
 what she regarded as injustice. Ven 
 eration for the priests who had au 
 thorized this transfer of the church s 
 properties prevented her from desig 
 nating it by such an ugly word as 
 theft, but her soul was in revolt. 
 
 "Down there," she said, pointing 
 in the direction of Monterey, "they 
 
 11 
 
keep the beautiful vestments which 
 the blessed padre, Junipero Serra, 
 wore. They are made of cloth of 
 gold finer than kings wear and 
 some of them are embroidered with 
 roses and lilies and real pearls. One 
 of the chasubles has amethysts and 
 topazes sewed on it." 
 
 "How do you know all this, little 
 one?" asked Bedford. 
 
 "Anybody can see them who pays 
 two bits," answered Carmelita. "But 
 sometimes they let the Bishop, or vis 
 iting priests, wear them because, you 
 know, the church isn t rich enough 
 to buy others." 
 
 "What vandalism!" muttered Bed 
 ford. 
 
 As one by one Carmelita recalled 
 the holy relics, stored in locked 
 presses down at San Carlos, she 
 waxed eloquent. She touched with 
 less ardor upon the silver candle 
 sticks and censer, the holy-water 
 sprinkler and other furniture of the 
 sanctuary. But the robes in which 
 Padre Serra had officiated at the al 
 tar seemed to his little caretaker a 
 
 12 
 
part of his holy person. It may be 
 that underlying her veneration for the 
 padre was a love of finery an unde 
 veloped instinct of her womanhood, 
 awakened by the richness and beau 
 ty of the vestments. 
 
 Bedford had seen all of these 
 things, but the girl s enthusiasm in 
 terested him, and he led her on to 
 describe each in detail; fanning her 
 indignation till it culminated in an 
 outburst of wrath that they should 
 have robbed Padre Junipero of the 
 very stole in which they had found 
 him more than a hundred years af 
 ter he had been buried. 
 
 "But," he protested, as he might 
 have teased an excited child, "for 
 Carmel to be jealous of San Carlos 
 is for a daughter to be jealous of her 
 mother. Of course you know that 
 the little church in Monterey is the 
 mother church and Carmer was 
 originally called San Carlos del Rio 
 Carmelo/ " 
 
 But Carmelita s jealous prejudice 
 was the growth of a lifetime, and was 
 not to be uprooted by a half-hearted 
 
 13 
 
protest. Her attitude suggested to 
 Bedford a thought an inspiration. 
 
 Junipero Serra was manifestly the 
 idol and hero of this imaginative, im 
 pressionable child. Through her he 
 would create an interest in the Cali 
 fornia missions which were rapidly 
 passing out of the world of romance 
 into sober history. Her lips should 
 publish advance sheets of his "Story 
 of the Padres" yet in embryo. 
 With his finger on her keen sensibil 
 ities, he would find the pulse of the 
 people. 
 
 Bedford was a rapid thinker. In 
 a moment he had evolved a plan. 
 Meantime, he had lost nothing of 
 Carmelita s plaintive cry against in 
 justice. Advancing to the "sanctuary 
 on the Gospel side, fronting the altar 
 of our Lady of Seven Dolors," he 
 pointed downward where, under the 
 floor, lay the blessed remains of the 
 Fray Presidente and his coadjutors, 
 Padres Crespi, Lopez and Lasuen. 
 
 "What does it matter," he sooth 
 ingly said, "what becomes of the 
 
 14 
 
clothes, when they have left you his 
 body?" 
 
 Carmelita looked at him in amaze 
 ment. She was undergoing a new 
 experience, a reversal of the usual 
 order. 
 
 "Were you ever here before?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "No," he answered. 
 
 "Then how did you know where 
 he \vas buried?" 
 
 Bedford smiled. 
 
 "I know a good many things, and 
 if you will let me, I m going to teach 
 you some of them. But first tell me 
 your name." 
 
 "Carmelita." She said. 
 
 "Well, Carmelita" his voice lin 
 gered on the syllables as he deliber 
 ated. He then repeated it. "Well, 
 "Carmelita, if you ll help me, we ll 
 give back to Padre Junipero all that 
 belongs to him." He pointed to the 
 alms box a mute appeal to strang 
 ers to save the dear old church from 
 irretrievable ruin. "We ll fill that 
 box with gold you and I and we ll 
 make Carmel so beautiful that the 
 
 15 
 
priests will remember what they ap 
 pear to have forgotten that Carmel, 
 and not San Carlos, was the holy 
 Junipero s best beloved church. And 
 strangers from all over the world 
 shall come to see it, and you its lit 
 tle caretaker shall become famous 
 throughout all the missions." 
 
 Carmelita s eyes shone like stars as 
 she listened to Bedford s glowing 
 prophecies. In a voice subdued b] 
 awe to a half whisper she asked: 
 "Are you a king?" 
 
 "No, child; they don t have kings 
 in this country; at least not the kind 
 that you mean. But come now and 
 show me over the church. What are 
 all these hideous benches in the 
 nave?" 
 
 "For the Sunday-school," she re 
 plied. "About two dozen children 
 come every Sunday from Carmel 
 City." She pointed toward the little 
 fishing settlement on the beach. "But 
 I hate Sunday-school! Do you think 
 that s a sin?" 
 
 "No," answered Bedford, "I don t 
 
 16 
 
think it s a sin. What does your 
 priest say about it?" 
 
 "We haven t any parish priest. 
 Once a year on the feast of San 
 Carlos a priest comes from Mon 
 terey to hold service and confess us. 
 On other feast days we go to Mon 
 terey." 
 
 He looked at the innocent young 
 face before him and wondered with 
 what possible sin she could charge 
 herself. Presently he asked her. The 
 question obviously embarrassed her, 
 but she evasively answered: 
 "All sorts of little things." 
 "And what big thing, Carmelita?" 
 She wistfully sought his eye, and 
 then confessed to this friend of an 
 hour the sin which she had concealed 
 from the priests. Not that she had 
 dreaded penance, but she loved the 
 sin. 
 
 "I sometimes play church." 
 She said this with the faltering 
 voice of one confessing a crime. Her 
 confessor could scarcely suppress a 
 smile, but he gravely answered: 
 
 17 
 
"I m sure there s nothing sinful in 
 that." 
 
 "But I make believe that the church 
 is full of Indians, and that I am the 
 dear padre. And I read the prayers 
 out of his book, just as he did." 
 
 "Can you read Latin?" asked Bed 
 ford, in surprise. 
 
 "No, not really; but it sounds just 
 like what the priests read." 
 
 "Read some for me, that I may 
 hear how it sounds, because" Bed 
 ford s conscience felt no qualm "if 
 you haven t really said the words, of 
 course you haven t committed any 
 sin." 
 
 Carmelita advanced to the chancel 
 rail, knelt for a moment, and crossed 
 herself her lips moving in silent 
 prayer, which was not "make be 
 lieve." Then, fitting a key to a pad 
 lock, she opened a gate which she 
 closed behind her. Again, before the 
 altar, she prostrated herself in silent 
 prayer. When, for the second time, 
 she rose from her knees, she rever 
 ently took in her hand the exquisite 
 ly illuminated missal which bore un- 
 
 18 
 
doubted marks of authenticity, as 
 Bedford s practiced eye could discern 
 even at that distance. He could not 
 but commend the church s sagacity 
 in placing its treasures under lock 
 and key at San Carlos, when he saw 
 this priceless treasure entrusted to a 
 child in a roofless ruin. 
 
 Carmelita placed her ringer on the 
 faded green ribbon which extended 
 beyond the margin, casually explain 
 ing that each season in the Christian 
 year had its own color. Then, with 
 rare imitative skill that might have 
 deceived any but a classical scholar, 
 she intoned after the fashion of the 
 priests, substituting meaningless words 
 and phrases for the written prayers. 
 
 Bedford, assuring her that the 
 words meant nothing, absolved her. 
 But in his heart he believed that those 
 prayers had ascended straight from 
 her pure young soul to the throne of 
 grace. 
 
 He pointed to a well preserved in 
 scription on the wall, in the Chapel 
 of the Crucifixion. 
 
 "What does that say, Carmelita?" 
 
 19 
 
This time she did not confess her 
 ignorance, but, as if reading, she 
 slowly repeated in liquid Spanish the 
 words that she had learned by rote: 
 
 "O Heart of Jesus, Thou that art 
 always glowing and radiant, inspire 
 and enlighten my heart with Thy di 
 vine love." 
 
 "Angels and saints, let us praise 
 the Heart of Jesus." 
 
 Thus he led her on to tell him, in 
 her simple fashion, much that he al 
 ready knew; giving her in exchange 
 casual glimpses of a world of which 
 she knew almost nothing the world 
 whence had come the padres. 
 
 Progress through the church was 
 slow; for out of the grim, weather- 
 beaten walls Bedford was carving a 
 romance, and as he passed from 
 chancel to belfry, every stone had 
 something to say to him. 
 
 Before leaving the church he 
 showed Carmelita a shining gold 
 coin. 
 
 "This is a luck-piece," he said, 
 dropping it into the mite box. "Will 
 
 20 
 
you help me to fill that box with 
 gold?" 
 
 She had never owned a gold piece 
 in her life had rarely handled one 
 and the sight of his money made her 
 feel more helpless than if he had 
 asked her to carry the brick and 
 mortar wherewith to rebuild the 
 church. 
 
 "How can I help you?" she asked, 
 dejectedly. 
 
 "Leave that to me, child," he an 
 swered. "But you must let me come 
 here often every day, if I choose 
 that I may teach you to help me." 
 
 Of course he might come every 
 day, she assured him. The church 
 was open to everyone ; and surely he 
 who had paid the entrance fee 
 many, many times over might come 
 as often and stay as long as he 
 pleased. Every trace of dejection 
 had passed. 
 
 "I m going to give you your first 
 lesson now, Carmelita." 
 
 Bedford drew from his pocket-book 
 a fine photograph of Junipero Serra. 
 It was a beautiful, inspiring face ; 
 
 21 
 
spiritual, tender, strong of purpose, 
 radiant with hope, but sad withal. 
 
 As he minutely examined it he 
 marveled not at the adoration of 
 Catholic California for this man the 
 dauntless pioneer, the gentle leader, 
 the zealous, untiring priest. He won 
 dered only that the State at large did 
 not open its coffers to canonize ap 
 propriately the memory of the sainted 
 padre, and proclaim him throughout 
 the world the hero that he was. His 
 purpose strengthened with these re 
 flections. 
 
 He handed the picture to Carmel- 
 ita. 
 
 "Would you like to have this?" he 
 asked. 
 
 The girl s delight had in it a cer 
 tain pathos. It was manifest that 
 she had not been the recipient of 
 many gifts. 
 
 "For me?" she incredulously ex 
 claimed. "For me to keep for my 
 own ! The dear padre !" 
 
 "Yes, for your very own," an 
 swered Bedford. "This is your les 
 son book. I want you to study that 
 
 22 
 
face every day, until you know every 
 line in it ; until you can shut your 
 eyes and see the padre standing at 
 that altar, even as the Indians used 
 to see him. I m going to make you 
 work hard harder than you ever did 
 in your life. But it won t seem so 
 hard when you remember that you 
 are Junipero s little caretaker, and 
 that you are working for the dear 
 padre s sake you and I together." 
 
 The glad light in the black eyes, 
 which again met the blue, was not 
 all for the dear padre s sake. A new 
 world had suddenly disclosed itself 
 to Carmelita. 
 
 Shortly after this episode, a young 
 girl, with unbound hair of dense 
 blackness, touched here and there 
 with a purple light, stood in the nave 
 of the church, amid men and women 
 whose rich apparel was in striking 
 contrast to her simple, almost rude, 
 garb. 
 
 At the top of a dark, narrow stair 
 way, winding up through a small 
 tower, a workman was softly chip 
 ping fragments of adobe from a 
 
 23 
 
crumbling arch which once must have 
 led into the choir, of which not a 
 vestige remained. To those who had 
 not observed the man, the light "tap- 
 tap" of his hammer suggested only 
 that a woodpecker was helping time 
 in its work of demolition. 
 
 Under the guidance of the little 
 caretaker, the visitors had made the 
 conventional tour of inspection and 
 now stood near the hidden tomb of 
 the church s founder; the men bare 
 headed, the women reverently silent. 
 
 A voice broke the stillness : the 
 gentle, melodious voice of the padre s 
 caretaker. 
 
 "Shall I tell you about Fray Juni- 
 pero Serra?" she asked in persuasive 
 tones. "How he came to be the 
 Presidente of all the Missions?" 
 
 Then, as if inspired, she told the 
 oft-told tale as it had never been told 
 before. She carried her hearers with 
 her in rapid flight from the old 
 world to the new, from the land of 
 the Aztecs to the Californias. She 
 sketched the life of Serra from the 
 cradle to the grave, depicting the last 
 
 24 
 
scenes with thrilling pathos. There 
 was a poetic sentiment, a graceful 
 imagery, a literary touch in her sim 
 ple, direct language that electrified 
 her audience. The purity of her 
 English was in itself amazing; it 
 was so strangely at variance with her 
 colloquial speech. 
 
 When she had brought her audi 
 ence back to the nineteenth century, 
 to Father Casanova s recent discov 
 ery of the long-lost graves, she re 
 ferred to his noble appeal for the 
 restoration of the church; then 
 paused. The well-bred assemblage 
 knew better than to break silence in 
 the midst of a theme. On the con 
 trary, they waited expectantly; even 
 resisting an impulse to exchange 
 glances, lest this prodigy should 
 miraculously disappear. But the si 
 lence frightened her. She became 
 self-conscious, then terrified. She 
 turned to flee. 
 
 "Tap-tap; softly sounded in the 
 archway. 
 
 The absorbed spectators did not 
 heed the slight noise any more than 
 
 25 
 
they had the cessation of it. But the 
 central figure of the group raised her 
 eyes, and arrested her flight. 
 
 Once more the sweet, persuasive 
 voice rang through the church this 
 time in pleading accents. When she 
 again paused, the work of restoration 
 had begun; a shower of silver and 
 gold fell into the mite box. With 
 the jingle of coin, the spellbound men 
 and women found their tongues. Ex 
 clamations of wonder and praise burst 
 from their lips, and they plied the girl 
 with questions. 
 
 Whence had come her knowledge, 
 her skill? But these queries elicited 
 no response. Cinderella, shorn of 
 her splendor, crouching over the 
 ashes, was not more humble than was 
 the little orator, descended from the 
 rostrum. Again she had become shy 
 little Carmelita nothing more. 
 
 "Who told you this tale, child?" 
 asked one, more persistent than the 
 rest. 
 
 "Tap tap," softly resounded from 
 the archway. 
 
 "I was born here," answered Car- 
 
 26 
 
melita. And no persuasion could in 
 duce further explanation. 
 
 The strangers took leave of her at 
 the church door. 
 
 "We ll come again," they said, 
 "and bring others with us. Padre 
 Junipero s tomb shall be the best pre 
 served of all the missions thanks to 
 his little caretaker." 
 
 Bedford, yet in his workman s 
 blouse, sought Carmelita in the shad 
 ows of the adobes. He found her as 
 he had first seen her, leaning against 
 the broken wall ; but this time he did 
 not steal upon her unawares. She 
 was eagerly awaiting him, as she had 
 awaited him many times in the inter 
 val, but flushed and tremulous under 
 the excitement of success. 
 
 "Bravo, Carmelita," he exclaimed. 
 "Bravo, my girl !" 
 
 And then, because they were young 
 and human, they forgot, for a mo 
 ment, the sainted padre who had 
 been dead for more than a century. 
 
 The visitors kept their word. 
 Again, and yet again, they came and 
 brought others with them: all leav- 
 
 27 
 
ing in the mite box substantial token. 
 The first day was but a prelude to 
 many that followed. 
 
 Carmelita s fame spread far and 
 wide. Every attempt, however, to 
 solve her mysterious personality 
 failed. She was distinctly two in 
 dividuals, and neither was communi 
 cative. 
 
 She excited expectation and stimu 
 lated curiosity by the desultory char 
 acter of her recital, where her itiner 
 ant audience would have lost interest 
 in a sustained story. One day, a 
 dramatic incident was presented ; an 
 other, a romantic legend told. It was 
 a chime of mission bells not yet 
 strung together. 
 
 Bedford s scheme had developed 
 beyond his most sanguine expecta 
 tions. Early Western history became 
 the fashion of the hour, and the 
 restoration was so vigorously prose 
 cuted that he feared lest he might 
 have to plead for the ruins. 
 
 He had indeed found the pulse of 
 the people. But, in putting his finger 
 on Carmelita s "keen sensibilities," 
 
 28 
 
he had set her heart strings to vi 
 brating. He tried to persuade him 
 self that he had done her no harm; 
 for he had uniformly and consistently 
 treated her as a child, although he 
 had long since ceased to regard her 
 as such. Then, too, he had ever 
 save once, perhaps kept the image 
 of the padre between her and him. 
 Nevertheless, his heart was troubled. 
 When he had gone and the hour of 
 their inevitable parting was near at 
 hand would she find compensation 
 in her noble ideals? The church 
 which she so dearly loved had 
 brought peace to many a stricken 
 soul, but would it restore peace to her 
 heart? He feared not. 
 
 Bedford was not a vain man, but 
 Carmelita had innocently manifested 
 that which a more worldly-wise 
 woman would have been at pains to 
 have concealed. She had been as 
 wax in his hands, and he had probed 
 her innermost thoughts in molding 
 her to his purpose. Of that purpose 
 he had told her nothing. 
 
 "Time enough to explain the ulti- 
 
 29 
 
mate object, when the work is done," 
 he reflected. 
 
 But when the new roof had shut 
 out the stars, he knew that explana 
 tion could no longer be deferred. 
 Her work was nearly finished ; his 
 just begun. She had stirred sleeping 
 Monterey; he must arouse the West, 
 the East the world. Already he had 
 lingered too long; even now his book 
 should be in the press. 
 
 He very awkwardly broke the ti 
 dings, and, for the first time, found 
 her obtuse. 
 
 "But if the church if finished, why 
 need you do any more work?" she 
 asked. "And why need you go away 
 at all?" 
 
 Again he tried to explain : 
 
 "The Carmel Mission is but one of 
 many all going to ruin, unless some 
 step be taken to preserve them." 
 
 She looked puzzled. 
 
 "When you come back from San 
 Francisco" that he was going fur 
 ther did not occur to her, and he 
 had not the heart to undeceive her 
 
 30 
 
"are we going about from Mission to 
 Mission, like play-actors?" 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" he involuntarily 
 exclaimed. 
 
 For a moment, Bedford was stag 
 gered by her suggestion. Was she, 
 after all, the unsophisticated child 
 that he believed her to be, or a 
 woman grown bold for love of him? 
 But with silent protest he disavowed 
 the ugly thought. No, a thousand 
 times no ! 
 
 "No, Carmelita," he quietly an 
 swered, "you couldn t tell this story 
 anywhere but right here; because you 
 couldn t feel it anywhere else as you 
 do here. Your love for the church, 
 which the padre so dearly loved that 
 he chose it for his tomb, is the secret 
 of your success. Any other Mission 
 would be to you but a pile of stones, 
 and your voice would grow cold 
 when you tried to tell the people 
 about it, and then you couldn t make 
 them listen. So I must tell it to these 
 other people in another way." 
 
 At these words a demon of jeal 
 ousy broke loose. 
 
 31 
 
"It s my story," she passionately 
 exclaimed, "it s my story! I shan t 
 let any other caretaker tell my story." 
 
 A chill of foreboding seized Bed 
 ford. Had he jeopardized his tale by 
 publishing advance sheets? He did 
 not apprehend that Carmelita would 
 resent his publication of the story 
 which she had made her own, but 
 how would the public receive the 
 twice-told tale? True, del Monte 
 was but an atom in a hidden corner 
 of the universe, but himself a trav 
 eler he knew that the birds of pas 
 sage who alighted there, even for a 
 day, carried seed to the ends of the 
 earth. Had his work already gone 
 abroad as her story? Had his care 
 fully guarded incognito laid him open 
 to the charge of plagiarism? And, 
 where he already owed reparation, 
 could he claim his own without act 
 ing ungenerously? 
 
 By way of answer to these self- 
 searching queries, a magnanimous 
 thought obtruded itself. He called it 
 quixotic, and tried thus to put it away 
 
 32 
 
from him. But it was not so easily 
 got rid of, so he squarely faced it. 
 
 "Never fear, my little maid," he 
 said, "no one shall rob you of your 
 story. I can t prevent others from 
 telling it ; but I can at least promise 
 you that wherever it shall be told, 
 Carmelita s name shall be heard also. 
 But don t fret about any other care 
 taker; for in all the world there is 
 not one but you that could tell it. 
 Now I want you to make me a prom 
 ise." 
 
 Her smile assented more surely 
 than words. 
 
 "No one knows that I ve been 
 here," he said. "No one knows who 
 taught you your story; that is our se 
 cret yours and mine. Promise me 
 that you will keep it until my re 
 turn." 
 
 She promised and he left her with 
 a kiss on her lips, the first kiss and 
 the last. 
 
 A chime of mission bells pealed 
 through the air, awakening the slum 
 bering echoes of the angelus which 
 in the olden days had called the peo- 
 
 33 
 
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS 
 
 WILL BE <ACSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN 
 THIS BO6K ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY 
 WILL INCREASE TO SO CENTS ON THE FOURTH 
 DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY 
 OVERDUE. 
 
 JAN 25 193 C < 
 
 
 
 
 ftPNT AM II f 
 
 
 ociM f t*ft ILL. 
 
 
 DEC 1 6 1998 
 
 
 U, C- SEBKEi-Ey 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 LD 21-95m-7, 37 
 
37680G 
 
 v- I 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY