Orleans? Yes. I am Padre Ignacio."

"Then you'll save me a journey. I promised him to deliver these into
your own hands."

The stranger gave them to him.

"A bag of gold-dust," he explained, "and a letter. I wrote it at his
dictation while he was dying. He lived hardly an hour afterward."

The stranger bowed his head at the stricken cry which his news elicited
from the priest, who, after a few moments' vain effort to speak, opened
the letter and read:

My dear Friend,--It is through no man's fault but mine that I have come
to this. I have had plenty of luck, and lately have been counting the
days until I should return home. But last night heavy news from New
Orleans reached me, and I tore the pressed flower to pieces. Under the
first smart and humiliation of broken faith I was rendered desperate,
and picked a needless quarrel. Thank God, it is I who have the
punishment. By dear friend, as I lie here, leaving a world that no man
ever loved more, I have come to understand you. For you and your mission
have been much in my thoughts. It is strange how good can be done, not
at the time when it is intended, but afterward; and you have done this
good to me. I say over your words, "Contentment with Renunciation," and
believe that at this last hour I have gained something like what you
would wish me to feel. For I do not think that I desire it otherwise
now. My life would never have been of service, I am afraid. You am the
last person in this world who has spoken serious words to me, and I want
you to know that now at length I value the peace of Santa Ysabel as I
could never have done but for seeing your wisdom and goodness. You spoke
of a new organ for your church. Take the gold-dust that will reach you
with this, and do what you will with it. Let me at least in dying have
helped some one. And since them is no aristocracy in souls--you said
that to me; do you remember?--perhaps you will say a mass for this
departing soul of mine. I only wish, must my body must go under ground
in a strange country, that it might have been at Santa Ysabel did Mar,
where your feet would often pass.

"'At Santa Ysabel del Mar, where your feet would often pass.'" The
priest repeated this final sentence aloud, without being aware of it.

"Those are the last words he ever spoke," said the stranger, "except
bidding me good-by."

"You knew him well, then?"

"No; not until after he was hurt. I'm the man he quarreled with."

The priest looked