her, she
always responded. Not infrequently, more than one mission would implore
her presence. Then she would visit the one most in distress, and send
some of her pupils to the others. Thus she passed her days in good work
toward her fellowmen, finding her reward in the blessing of God which
crowned her life. And ever after her first visit to San Diego, she was
called by the name which Pedro, in his love, had bestowed upon her--La
Beata.

(1) Literally, the blessed one; a woman who gives herself to works of
charity.

Juana

The overland mail-train from San Francisco, on the way to New Orleans,
came to a stop for a minute or two at the little old town of San
Gabriel, ten miles east of Los Angeles. It was a hot July afternoon, in
the year 1890; the car windows were open, and the passengers were gazing
out listlessly at the few signs of animation about the station and town.
San Gabriel is a sleepy old place, with little to interest the ordinary
person. A traveler, passing through it, sees nothing to attract his
notice as the train pauses at the station, and he finds his gaze
wandering off to the north, where it meets the lofty San Gabriel
Mountains, a long line of blue-grey, shimmering in the heat of the
plains. There is much beautiful scenery around San Gabriel, and
wonderful canyons among these mountains. But there is one object of
interest in the town we must not forget to mention--the old mission
church, which the traveler on the train may see standing near the track,
a half-mile before coming to the station. It is a fine old structure,
planted firmly and solidly on the ground, and looking as though it might
stand another century, without showing more marks of age than it does
now after having closed its first one hundred years. This is an object
in which every passer-by, even the most indifferent, finds an interest.

The engine panted, the passengers gazed absently at the men exchanging
the bags of mail. All at once a sound of singing was heard in the
distance. It was a woman's voice, old and quavering, and the song was
a weird, almost unearthly, chant or dirge in a minor key. Slowly the
singer approached the station, and reaching it, mounted the steps of the
platform and seated herself on a bench, keeping on, without pause, her
monotonous singing. The woman was a Mexican, very poorly dressed, and
looked to be all of ninety years of age. This aroused in some slight
degree the interest of the passengers