e growing old together, you see," he added, more lightly. "You
will find my volumes as behind the times as myself."

He had fallen into talk more intimate than he wished; and while the
guest was uttering something polite about the nobility of missionary
work, he placed him in an easy-chair and sought aguardiente for his
immediate refreshment. Since the year's beginning there had been no
guest for him to bring into his rooms, or to sit beside him in the high
seats at table, set apart for the gente fina.

Such another library was not then in California; and though Gaston
Villere, in leaving Harvard College, had shut Horace and Sophocles for
ever at the earliest instant possible under academic requirements, he
knew the Greek and Latin names that he now saw as well as he knew those
of Shakspere, Dante, Moliere, and Cervantes. These were here also; but
it could not be precisely said of them, either, that they made a part
of the young man's daily reading. As he surveyed the Padre's august
shelves, it was with a touch of the histrionic Southern gravity which
his Northern education had not wholly schooled out of him that he said:

"I fear I am no scholar, sir. But I know what writers every gentleman
ought to respect."

The polished Padre bowed gravely to this compliment.

It was when his eyes caught sight of the music that the young man felt
again at ease, and his vivacity returned to him. Leaving his chair, he
began enthusiastically to examine the tall piles that filled one side
of the room. The volumes lay piled and scattered everywhere, making
a pleasant disorder; and, as perfume comes from a flower, memories
of singers and chandeliers rose bright from the printed names. Norma,
Tancredi, Don Pasquale, La Vestale, dim lights in the fashions of
to-day, sparkled upon the exploring Gaston, conjuring the radiant halls
of Europe before him. "The Barber of Seville!" he presently exclaimed.
"And I happened to hear it in Seville."

But Seville's name brought over the Padre a new rush of home thoughts.
"Is not Andalusia beautiful?" he said. "Did you see it in April, when
the flowers come?"

"Yes," said Gaston, among the music. "I was at Cordova then."

"Ah, Cordova!" murmured the Padre.

"Semiramide!" cried Gaston, lighting upon that opera. "That was a week!
I should like to live it over, every day and night of it!"

"Did you reach Malaga from Marseilles or Gibraltar?" asked the Padre,
wistfully.

"From Marseilles. Down f