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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 from Paris through the Rhone Valley, you know.”

“Then you saw Provence! And did you go, perhaps, from Avignon to Nismes by the Pont du Gard? There is a place I have made here–a little, little place–with olive-trees. And now they have grown, and it looks something like that country, if you stand in a particular position. I will take you there to-morrow. I think you will understand what I mean.”

“Another resemblance!” said the volatile and happy Gaston. “We both seem to have an eye for them. But, believe me, Padre, I could never stay here planting olives. I should go back and see the original ones–and then I’d hasten on to Paris.”

And, with a volume of Meyerbeer open in his hand, Gaston hummed: “‘Robert, Robert, toi que j’aime.’ Why, Padre, I think that your library contains none of the masses and all of the operas in the world!”

“I will make you a little confession,” said Padre Ignacio, “and then you shall give me a little absolution.”

“For a penance,” said Gaston, “you must play over some of these things to me.”

“I suppose I could not permit myself this luxury,” began the Padre, pointing to his operas, “and teach these to my choir, if the people had any worldly associations with the music. But I have reasoned that the music cannot do them harm–“

The ringing of a bell here interrupted him. “In fifteen minutes,” he said, “our poor meal will be ready for you.” The good Padre was not quite sincere when he spoke of a “poor meal.” While getting the aguardiente for his guest he had given orders, and he knew how well such orders would be carried out. He lived alone, and generally supped simply enough, but not even the ample table at San Fernando could surpass his own on occasions. And this was for him indeed an occasion!