. But the priest was laughing alone inside to see how little it
was to him where the barkentine was, or whether it should be coming
or going. But in the afternoon, at his piano, he found himself saying,
"Other ships call here, at any rate." And then for the first time he
prayed to be delivered from his thoughts. Yet presently he left his seat
and looked out of the window for a sight of the barkentine; but it was
gone.

The season of the wine-making passed, and the putting up of all
the fruits that the mission fields grew. Lotions and medicines were
distilled from the garden herbs. Perfume was manufactured from the
petals of the flowers and certain spices, and presents of it despatched
to San Fernando and Ventura, and to friends at other places; for the
padre had a special receipt. As the time ran on, two or three visitors
passed a night with him; and presently there was a word at various
missions that Padre Ignazio had begun to show his years. At Santa Ysabel
del Mar they whispered, "The padre is getting sick." Yet he rode a great
deal over the hills by himself, and down the canyon very often, stopping
where he had sat with Gaston, to sit alone and look up and down, now at
the hills above, and now at the ocean below. Among his parishioners
he had certain troubles to soothe, certain wounds to heal; a home from
which he was able to drive jealousy; a girl whom he bade her lover set
right. But all said, "The padre is sick." And Felipe told them that
the music seemed nothing to him any more; he never asked for his Dixit
Dominus nowadays. Then for a short time he was really in bed, feverish
with the two voices that spoke to him without ceasing. "You have given
your life," said one voice. "And therefore," said the other, "have
earned the right to go home and die." "You are winning better rewards in
the service of God," said the first voice. "God can be served in other
places than this," answered the second. As he lay listening he saw
Seville again, and the trees of Aranhal, where he had been born. The
wind was blowing through them; and in their branches he could hear the
nightingales. "Empty! Empty!" he said, aloud. "He was right about the
birds. Death does live in the air where they never sing." And he lay for
two days and nights hearing the wind and the nightingales in the trees
of Aranhal. But Felipe, watching, heard only the padre crying through
the hours: "Empty! Empty!"

Then the wind in the trees died down, and the pad