d smiled also.

Father Pedro's smile was rare. He was not a Las Casas, nor a Junipero
Serra, but he had the deep seriousness of all disciples laden with the
responsible wording of a gospel not their own. And his smile had an
ecclesiastical as well as a human significance, the pleasantest object
in his prospect being the fair and curly head of his boy acolyte and
chorister, Francisco, which appeared among the vines, and his sweetest
pastoral music, the high soprano humming of a chant with which the boy
accompanied his gardening.

Suddenly the acolyte's chant changed to a cry of terror. Running rapidly
to Father Pedro's side, he grasped his sotana, and even tried to hide
his curls among its folds.

"'St! 'st!" said the Padre, disengaging himself with some impatience.
"What new alarm is this? Is it Luzbel hiding among our Catalan vines, or
one of those heathen Americanos from Monterey? Speak!"

"Neither, holy father," said the boy, the color struggling back into his
pale cheeks, and an apologetic, bashful smile lighting his clear eyes.
"Neither; but oh! such a gross, lethargic toad! And it almost leaped
upon me."

"A toad leaped upon thee!" repeated the good father with evident
vexation. "What next? I tell thee, child, those foolish fears are most
unmeet for thee, and must be overcome, if necessary, with prayer and
penance. Frightened by a toad! Blood of the Martyrs! 'Tis like any
foolish girl!"

Father Pedro stopped and coughed.

"I am saying that no Christian child should shrink from any of God's
harmless creatures. And only last week thou wast disdainful of poor
Murieta's pig, forgetting that San Antonio himself did elect one his
faithful companion, even in glory."

"Yes, but it was so fat, and so uncleanly, holy father," replied the
young acolyte, "and it smelt so."

"Smelt so?" echoed the father doubtfully. "Have a care, child, that this
is not luxuriousness of the senses. I have noticed of late you gather
overmuch of roses and syringa, excellent in their way and in moderation,
but still not to be compared with the flower of Holy Church, the lily."

"But lilies don't look well on the refectory table, and against the
adobe wall," returned the acolyte, with a pout of a spoilt child; "and
surely the flowers cannot help being sweet, any more than myrrh or
incense. And I am not frightened of the heathen Americanos either NOW.
There was a small one in the garden yesterday, a boy like me, and he
spoke kindly and