e recollection had caused him,
and somehow it now sent a burning blush across his face. He hurried back
into the house.

The next day a thousand wild ideas took the place of his former settled
resolution. He would seek the Padre, this custodian of the young girl's
soul; he would convince HIM of his error, or beseech him to give him
an equal access to her spirit! He would seek the uncle of the girl, and
work upon his feelings.

Then for three or four days he resolved to put the young girl from his
mind, trusting after the fashion of his kind for some special revelation
from a supreme source as an indication for his conduct. This revelation
presently occurred, as it is apt to occur when wanted.

One evening his heart leaped at the familiar sound of Pepita's guitar in
the distance. Whatever his ultimate intention now, he hurriedly ran
into the garden. The sound came from the former direction, but as he
unhesitatingly approached the Mission wall, he could see that she was
not upon it, and as the notes of her guitar were struck again, he knew
that they came from the other side. But the chords were a prelude to one
of his own hymns, and he stood entranced as her sweet, childlike voice
rose with the very words that he had sung. The few defects were those of
purely oral imitation, the accents, even the slight reiteration of the
"s," were Pepita's own:

Cheeldren oof the Heavenly King,
As ye journey essweetly ssing;
Essing your great Redeemer's praise,
Glorioos in Hees works and ways.

He was astounded. Her recollection of the air and words was the more
wonderful, for he remembered now that he had only sung that particular
hymn once. But to his still greater delight and surprise, her voice rose
again in the second verse, with a touch of plaintiveness that swelled
his throat:

We are traveling home to God,
In the way our farzers trod,
They are happy now, and we
Soon their happiness shall see.

The simple, almost childish words--so childish that they might have been
the fitting creation of her own childish lips--here died away with a
sweep and crash of the whole strings. Breathless silence followed, in
which Stephen Masterton could feel the beatings of his own heart.

"Miss Ramirez," he called, in a voice that scarcely seemed his own.
There was no reply. "Pepita!" he repeated; it was strangely like the
accent of a lover, but he no longer cared. Still the singer's voice was
silen