I
　　AtSantaYsabeldelMartheseasonwasatoneofthosemomentswhentheairrestsquietoverlandandsea。Theoldbreezesweregone；thenewoneswerenotyetrisen。Theflowersinthemissiongardenopenedwide；
　　nowindcamebydayornighttoshaketheloosepetalsfromtheirstems。
　　Alongthebasking，silent，many—coloredshoregatheredandlingeredthecrispodorsofthemountains。Thedusthunggoldenandmotionlesslongaftertheriderwasbehindthehill，andthePacificlaylikeafloorofsapphire，whereontowalkbeyondthesettingsunintotheEast。Onewhitesailshonethere。Insteadofanhour，ithadbeenfromdawntillafternooninsightbetweentheshortheadlands；andthePadrehadhopedthatitmightbetheshiphishomesickheartawaited。Butithadslowlypassed。Fromanarchinhisgardencloistershewasnowwatchingthelastofit。Presentlyitwasgone，andthegreatoceanlayempty。ThePadreputhisglassesinhislap。Forashortwhilehereadinhisbreviary，butsoonforgotitagain。Helookedattheflowersandsunnyridges，thenatthehugebluetriangleofseawhichtheopeningofthehillsletintosight。"Paradise，"hemurmured，"neednotholdmorebeautyandpeace。ButIthinkIwouldexchangeallmyremainingyearsofthisforonesightagainofParisorSeville。MayGodforgivemesuchathought！"
　　Acrosstheunstirredfragranceofoleandersthebellforvespersbegantoring。ItstonespassedoverthePadreashewatchedtheseainhisgarden。Theyreachedhisparishionersintheiradobedwellingsnearby。
　　Thegentlecirclesofsoundfloatedoutwarduponthesmooth，immensesilence——overthevinesandpear—trees；downtheavenuesoftheolives；
　　intotheplantedfields，whencewomenandchildrenbegantoreturn；thenoutofthelapofthevalleyalongtheyellowuplands，wherethementhatrodeamongthecattlepaused，lookingdownlikebirdsatthemapoftheirhome。Thenthesoundwidened，faint，unbroken，untilitmetTemptationintheguiseofayouth，ridingtowardthePadrefromtheSouth，andcheeredthestepsofTemptation’sjadedhorse。
　　"Foraday，onesingledayofParis！"repeatedthePadre，gazingthroughhiscloistersattheemptysea。
　　Onceintheyearthemother—worldrememberedhim。Onceintheyear，fromSpain，tokensandhome—tidingscametohim，sentbycertainbelovedfriendsofhisyouth。Abarkentinebroughthimthesemessages。Wheneverthusthemother—worldrememberedhim，itwaslikethetouchofawarmhand，adearandtendercaress；adistantlife，byhimlongleftbehind，seemedtobedrawingtheexilehomewardfromthesealienshores。Asthetimeforhislettersandpacketsdrewnear，theeyesofPadreIgnaciowouldbeoftenfixedwistfullyupontheharbor，watchingforthebarkentine。Sometimes，asto—day，hemistookothersailsforhers，buthershemistooknever。ThatPacificOcean，which，forallitshuesandjeweledmists，hecouldnotlearntolove，had，sincelongbeforehisday，beenfurrowedbythekeelsofSpain。Traders，andadventurers，andmenofGodhadpassedalongthiscoast，plantingtheircoloniesandcloisters；butitwasnothisocean。Intheyearthatwe，athinstripofpatriotsawayoverontheAtlanticedgeofthecontinent，declaredourselvesanindependentnation，aSpanishship，inthenameofSaintFrancis，wasunloadingthecenturiesofherowncivilizationattheGoldenGate。SanDiegohadcomeearlier。Then，slowly，asmissionaftermissionwasbuiltalongthesoftcoastwilderness，newportswereestablished——atSantaBarbara，andbyPointSanLuisforSanLuisObispo，whichlayinlandalittlewayupthegorgewhereitopenedamongthehills。Thustheworldreachedthesemissionsbywater；whileonland，throughthemountains，aroadledtothem，andalsotomanymorethatweretoodistantbehindthehillsforshipstoserve——aroughroad，longandlonely，punctuatedwithchurchtowersandgardens。FortheFathersgraduallysostationedtheirsettlementsthatthetravelermighteachmorningrideoutfromonemissionandbyeveningofaday’sfairjourneyrideintothenext。Alonely，rough，dangerousroad，butlovely，too，withanamelikemusic——ElCaminoReal。Likemusicalsowerethenamesofthemissions——SanJuanCapistrano，SanLuisReydeFrancia，SanMiguel，SantaYnes——theirverylistisasong。
　　Sothere，by—and—by，wasourcontinent，withthelocomotivewhistlingfromSavannahtoBostonalongitseasternedge，andonthewesternthescatteredchimesofSpainringingamongtheunpeopIedmountains。Thusgrewthetwosortsofcivilization——notequally。Weknowwhathashappenedsince。To—daythelocomotiveiswhistlingalsofromTheGoldenGatetoSanDiego；butstilltheoldmission—roadgoesthroughthemountains，andalongitthefootstepsofvanishedSpainaremarkedwithroses，andbrokencloisters，andthecrucifix。
　　Butthiswas1855。OnlythebarkentinebroughttoPadreIgnaciothesignsfromtheworldthatheoncehadknownandlovedsodearly。Asforthenewworldmakingarudenoisetothenorthward，hetrustedthatitmightkeepawayfromSantaYsabel，andhewaitedforthevesselthatwasoverduewithitspackagecontaininghissingleworldlyluxury。
　　Asthelittle，ancientbronzebellcontinuedswinginginthetower，itsplaintivecallreachedsomethinginthePadre’smemory。Softly，absently，hebegantosing。Hetookuptheslowstrainnotquitecorrectly，anddroppedit，andtookitupagain，alwaysincadencewiththebell。
　　[musicalscoreappearshere]
　　Atlengthheheardhimself，and，glancingatthebelfry，smiledalittle。
　　"Itisaprettytune，"hesaid，"anditalwaysmademesorryforpoorFraDiavolo。Auberhimselfconfessedtomethathehadmadeitsadandputthehermitagebelltogowithit，becausehetoowasgrievedathavingtokillhisvillain，andwantedhim，ifpossible，todieinareligiousframeofmind。AndAubertouchedglasseswithmeandsaid——howwellI
　　rememberit！——’IsitthegoodLord，orisitmerelythedevil，thatmakesmealwayshaveaweaknessforrascals？’Itoldhimitwasthedevil。I
　　wasnotapriestthen。Icouldnotbesosurewithmyanswernow。"AndthenPadreIgnaciorepeatedAuber’sremarkinFrench:"’Est—celebonDieu，ouiest—cebienlediable，quiveuttonjoursquej’aimelescoquins？"Idon’tknow！Idon’tknow！IwonderifAuberhascomposedanythinglately？Iwonderwhoissinging’Zerlina’now？"
　　Hecastafarewelllookattheocean，andtookhisstepsbetweenthemonasticherbs，thejasminesandtheoleanderstothesacristy。"Atleast，"hesaid，"ifwecannotcarrywithusintoexilethefriendsandtheplaceswehaveloved，musicwillgowhitherwego，eventoanendoftheworldsuchasthis。——Felipe！"hecalledtohisorganist。"CantheysingthemusicItaughtthemfortheDixitDominusto—night？"
　　"Yes，father，surely。"
　　"Thenwewillhavethat。And，Felipe——"ThePadrecrossedthechanceltothesmall，shabbyorgan。"Rise，mychild，andlisten。Hereissomethingyoucanlearn。Why，seenowifyoucannotlearnitfromasinglehearing。"
　　Theswarthyboyofsixteenstoodwatchinghismaster’sfingers，delicateandwhite，astheyplayed。Thus，ofhisownaccord，hehadbeguntowatchthemwhenachildofsix；andthePadrehadtakenthewild，half—scared，spellboundcreatureandmadeamusicianofhim。
　　"There，Felipe！"hesaidnow。"Canyoudoit？Slower，andmoresoftly，muchachomio。Itisaboutthedeathofaman，anditshouldgowithourbell。"
　　Theboylistened。"Thenthefatherhasplayeditatonetoolow，"saidhe，"forourbellringsthenoteofsol，orsomethingverynearit，asthefathermustsurelyknow。"Heplacedthemelodyintherightkey——aneasythingforhim；andthePadrewasdelighted。
　　"Ah，myFelipe，"heexclaimed，"whatcouldyouandInotdoifwehadabetterorgan！Onlyalittlebetter！See！abovethisrowofkeyswouldbeasecondrow，andmanymorestops。ThenwewouldmakesuchmusicashasneveryetbeenheardinCalifornia。Butmypeoplearesopoorandsofew！
　　AndsomedayIshallhavepassedfromthem，anditwillbetoolate。"
　　"Perhaps，"venturedFelipe，"theAmericanos——"
　　"Theycarenothingforus，Felipe。Theyarenotofourreligion——orofanyreligion，fromwhatIcanhear。Don’tforgetmyDixitDominus。"
　　ThePadreretiredoncemoretothesacristy，whilethehorsethatbroughtTemptationcameoverthehill。
　　Thehourofservicedrewnear；andasthePadrewaitedheonceagainsteppedoutforalookattheocean；butthebluetriangleofwaterlaylikeapictureinitsframeofland，bareasthesky。"Ithink，fromthecolor，though，"saidhe，"thatalittlemorewindmusthavebegunoutthere。"
　　Thebellrangalastshortsummonstoprayer。Alongtheroadfromthesouthayoungrider，leadingapack—animal，ambledintothemissionanddismounted。Churchwasnotsomuchinhisthoughtsasfoodand，afterduedigestion，abed；butthedoorsstoodopen，and，aseverybodywaspassingwithinthem，morevarietywastobegainedbyjoiningthiscompanythanbywaitingoutsidealoneuntiltheyshouldreturnfromtheirdevotions。
　　Soheseatedhimselfinacornerneartheentrance，andafterabrief，jauntyglanceatthesunburned，shaggycongregation，madehimselfascomfortableasmightbe。Hehadnotseenafaceworthkeepinghiseyesopenfor。Thesimplechoirandsimplefold，gatheredforeven—song，paidhimnoattention——aroughAmericanboundforthemineswasbutanobjectofaversiontothem。
　　ThePadre，ofcourse，hadbeeninstantlyawareofthestranger’spresence。Tobeawareofunaccustomedpresencesisthesixthsensewithvicarsofeverycreedandheresy；andiftheparishislonelyandtheworshipersfewandseldomvarying，anewcomerwillgleamoutlikeanewbooktoberead。Andatrainedpriestlearnstoreadkeenlythefacesofthosewhoassembletoworshipunderhisguidance。ButAmericanvagrants，withnothoughtssaveofgold—digging，andanoverweeningilliteratejargonforspeech，hadlongceasedtointerestthispriest，eveninhisstarvationforcompanyandtalkfromtheoutsideworld；andthereforeaftertheintoninghesatwithhishomesickthoughtsunchanged，todrawbothpainandenjoymentfromthemusicthathehadsettotheDixitDominus。HelistenedtothetenderchorusthatopensWilliamTell；and，astheLatinpsalmproceeded，picturesofthepastrosebetweenhimandthealtar。Oneafteranothercamethesestrainshehadtakenfromoperasfamousintheirday，untilatlengththePadrewasmurmuringtosomemusicseldomlongoutofhisheart——nottheLatinversewhichthechoirsang，buttheoriginalFrenchwords:
　　"Ah，voilemanenvie，Voilamonseuldesir:
　　Rendezmoimapatrie，Oulaissezmoimourir。"
　　Whichmayberendered:
　　ButonewishIimplore，Onewishisallmycry:
　　Givebackmynativelandoncemore，Giveback，orletmedie。
　　Thenithappenedthathiseyefellagainuponthestrangernearthedoor，andheskaightwayforgothisDixitDominus。Thefaceoftheyoungmanwasnolongerhiddenbytheslouchingpositionhehadatfirsttaken。"I
　　onlynoticedhisclothesatfirst，"thoughtthePadre。Restlessnesswasplainuponthehandsomebrow，andviolencewasinthemouth；butPadreIgnaciolikedtheeyes。"Heisnotsayinganyprayers，"hesurmised，presently。"Idoubtifhehassaidanyforalongwhile。Andheknowsmymusic。Heisofeducatedpeople。HecannotbeAmerican。Andnow——yes，hehastaken——Ithinkitmustbeaflower，fromhispocket。Ishallhavehimtodinewithme。"AndvespersendedwithrosycloudsofeagernessdriftingacrossthePadre’sbrain。
　　II
　　Butthestrangermadehisownbeginning。Asthepriestcamefromthechurch，therebelliousyoungfigurewaswaiting。"Yourorganisttellsme，"hesaid，impetuously，"thatitisyouwho——"
　　"MayIaskwithwhomIhavethegreatpleasureofspeaking？"saidthePadre，puttingformalitytothefrontandhispleasureoutofsight。
　　Thestranger’sfacereddenedbeneathitssun—beatenbronze，andhebecameawareofthePadre’spalefeatures，moldedbyrefinementandtheworld。
　　"Ibegyourlenience，"saidhe，withagracefulandconfidentutterance，asofequaltoequal。"MynameisGastonVillere，anditwastimeI
　　shouldberemindedofmymanners。"
　　ThePadre’shandwavedapolitenegative。
　　"Indeed，yes，Padre。Butyourmusichasamazedme。Ifyoucarriedsuchassociationsas——Ah！thedaysandthenights！"——hebrokeoff。"TocomedownaCaliforniamountainandfindParisatthebottom！TheHuguenots，Rossini，Herold——IwaswaitingforIlTrovatore。"
　　"Isthatsomethingnew？"inquiredthePadre，eagerly。
　　Theyoungmangaveanexclamation。"Thewholeworldisringingwithit！"
　　hecried。
　　"ButSantaYsabeIdelMarisalongwayfromthewholeworld，"murmuredPadreIgnacio。
　　"Indeed，itwouldnotappeartobeso，"returnedyoungGaston。"IthinktheComedieFrancaisemustberoundthecorner。"
　　Athrillwentthroughthepriestatthetheater’sname。"AndhaveyoubeenlonginAmerica？"heasked。
　　"Why，always——excepttwoyearsofforeigntravelaftercollege。"
　　"AnAmerican！"exclaimedthesurprisedPadre，withperhapsatoneofdisappointmentinhisvoice。"ButnoAmericanswhoareyetcomethiswayhavebeen——havebeen"——heveiledthetoo—bluntexpressionofhisthought——"havebeenfamiliarwithTheHuguenots，"hefinished，makingaslightbow。
　　Villeretookhisunder—meaning。"IcomefromNewOrleans，"hereturned，"andinNewOrleanstherelivemanyofuswhocanrecognizea——whocanrecognizegoodmusicwhereverwehearit。"Andhemadeaslightbowinhisturn。
　　ThePadrelaughedoutrightwithpleasureandlaidhishandupontheyoungman’sarm。"Youhavenointentionofgoingawayto—morrow，Itrust？"
　　"Withyourleave，"answeredGaston，"Iwillhavesuchanintentionnolonger。"
　　ItwaswiththeairandgaitofmutualunderstandingthatthetwonowwalkedontogethertowardthePadre’sdoor。Theguestwastwenty—five，thehostsixty。
　　"AndhaveyoubeeninAmericalong？"inquiredGaston。
　　"Twentyyears。"
　　"AndatSantaYsabelhowlong？"
　　"Twentyyears。"
　　"Ishouldhavethought，"saidGaston，lookinglightlyatthedesertandunpeopIedmountains，"thatnowandagainyoumighthavewishedtotravel。"
　　"WereIyourage，"murmuredPadreIgnacio，"itmightbeso。"
　　Theeveninghadnowripenedtothelongafter—glowofsunset。Theseawasthepurpleofgrapes，andwine—coloredhuesflowedamongthehighshouldersofthemountains。
　　"Ihaveseenasightlikethis，"saidGaston，"betweenGranadaandMalaga。"
　　"SoyouknowSpain！"saidthePadre。
　　Oftenhehadthoughtofthisresemblance，butnevertillnowmetanyonetosharehisthought。ThecourtlyproprietorofSanFernandoandtheotherpatriarchalrancheroswithwhomheoccasionallyexchangedvisitsacrossthewildernessknewhospitalityandinheritedgentlemanners，sendingtoEuropeforsilksandlacestogivetheirdaughters；buttheireyeshadnotlookeduponGranada，andtheirearshadneverlistenedtoWilliamTell。
　　"Itisquitesingular，"pursuedGaston，"howonenookintheworldwillsuddenlyremindyouofanothernookthatmaybethousandsofmilesaway。
　　Onemorning，behindtheQuaiVoltaire，anold，yellowhousewithrustybalconiesmademealmosthomesickforNewOrleans。"
　　"TheQuaiVoltaire！"saidthePadre。
　　"IheardRachelinValeriethatnight，"theyoungmanwenton。"Didyouknowthatshecouldsing，too。ShesangseveralversesbyanastonishinglittleJewviolon—cellistthatiscomeupoverthere。"
　　ThePadregazeddownathisblitheguest。"Toseesomebody，somebody，onceagain，isverypleasanttoahermit！"
　　"Itcannotbemorepleasantthanarrivingatanoasis，"returnedGaston。
　　Theyhaddelayedonthethresholdtolookatthebeautyoftheevening，andnowthepriestwatchedhisparishionerscomeandgo。"Howcanonemakecompanions——"hebegan；then，checkinghimself，hesaid:"Theirsoulsareassacredandimmortalasmine，andGodhelpsmetohelpthem。
　　Butinthisworlditisnotimmortalsoulsthatwechooseforcompanions；
　　itiskindredtastes，intelligences，and——andsoIandmybooksaregrowingoldtogether，yousee，"headded，morelightly。"Youwillfindmyvolumesasbehindthetimesasmyself。"
　　Hehadfallenintotalkmoreintimatethanhewished；andwhiletheguestwasutteringsomethingpoliteaboutthenobilityofmissionarywork，heplacedhiminaneasy—chairandsoughtaguardienteforhisimmediaterefreshment。Sincetheyear’sbeginningtherehadbeennoguestforhimtobringintohisrooms，ortositbesidehiminthehighseatsattable，setapartforthegentefina。
　　SuchanotherlibrarywasnottheninCalifornia；andthoughGastonVillere，inleavingHarvardCollege，hadshutHoraceandSophoclesforeverattheearliestinstantpossibleunderacademicrequirements，heknewtheGreekandLatinnamesthathenowsawaswellasheknewthoseofShakspere，Dante，Moliere，andCervantes。Thesewereherealso；butitcouldnotbepreciselysaidofthem，either，thattheymadeapartoftheyoungman’sdailyreading。AshesurveyedthePadre’saugustshelves，itwaswithatouchofthehistrionicSoutherngravitywhichhisNortherneducationhadnotwhollyschooledoutofhimthathesaid:
　　"IfearIamnoscholar，sir。ButIknowwhatwriterseverygentlemanoughttorespect。"
　　ThepolishedPadrebowedgravelytothiscompliment。
　　Itwaswhenhiseyescaughtsightofthemusicthattheyoungmanfeltagainatease，andhisvivacityreturnedtohim。Leavinghischair，hebeganenthusiasticallytoexaminethetallpilesthatfilledonesideoftheroom。Thevolumeslaypiledandscatteredeverywhere，makingapleasantdisorder；and，asperfumecomesfromaflower，memoriesofsingersandchandeliersrosebrightfromtheprintednames。Norma，Tancredi，DonPasquale，LaVestale，dimlightsinthefashionsofto—day，sparkledupontheexploringGaston，conjuringtheradianthallsofEuropebeforehim。"TheBarberofSeville！"hepresentlyexclaimed。"AndI
　　happenedtohearitinSeville。"
　　ButSeville’snamebroughtoverthePadreanewrushofhomethoughts。
　　"IsnotAndalusiabeautiful？"hesaid。"DidyouseeitinApril，whentheflowerscome？"
　　"Yes，"saidGaston，amongthemusic。"IwasatCordovathen。"
　　"Ah，Cordova！"murmuredthePadre。
　　"Semiramide！"criedGaston，lightinguponthatopera。"Thatwasaweek！"
　　Ishouldliketoliveitover，everydayandnightofit！"
　　"DidyoureachMalagafromMarseillesorGibraltar？"askedthePadre，wistfully。
　　"FromMarseilles。DownfromParisthroughtheRhoneValley，youknow。"
　　"ThenyousawProvence！Anddidyougo，perhaps，fromAvignontoNismesbythePontduGard？ThereisaplaceIhavemadehere——alittle，littleplace——witholive—trees。Andnowtheyhavegrown，anditlookssomethinglikethatcountry，ifyoustandinaparticularposition。Iwilltakeyouthereto—morrow。IthinkyouwillunderstandwhatImean。"
　　"Anotherresemblance！"saidthevolatileandhappyGaston。"Webothseemtohaveaneyeforthem。But，believeme，Padre，Icouldneverstayhereplantingolives。Ishouldgobackandseetheoriginalones——andthenI’dhastenontoParis。"
　　And，withavolumeofMeyerbeeropeninhishand，Gastonhummed:
　　"’Robert，Robert，toiquej’aime。’Why，Padre，Ithinkthatyourlibrarycontainsnoneofthemassesandalloftheoperasintheworld！"
　　"Iwillmakeyoualittleconfession，"saidPadreIgnacio，"andthenyoushallgivemealittleabsolution。"
　　"Forapenance，"saidGaston，"youmustplayoversomeofthesethingstome。"
　　"IsupposeIcouldnotpermitmyselfthisluxury，"beganthePadre，pointingtohisoperas，"andteachthesetomychoir，ifthepeoplehadanyworldlyassociationswiththemusic。ButIhavereasonedthatthemusiccannotdothemharm——"
　　Theringingofabellhereinterruptedhim。"Infifteenminutes，"hesaid，"ourpoormealwillbereadyforyou。"ThegoodPadrewasnotquitesincerewhenhespokeofa"poormeal。"Whilegettingtheaguardienteforhisguesthehadgivenorders，andheknewhowwellsuchorderswouldbecarriedout。Helivedalone，andgenerallysuppedsimplyenough，butnoteventheampletableatSanFernandocouldsurpasshisownonoccasions。
　　Andthiswasforhimindeedanoccasion！
　　"Yourhalf—breedswillthinkIamoneofthemselves，"saidGaston，showinghisdustyclothes。"Iamnotfittobeseatedwithyou。"Buthedidnotmeanthisanymorethanhishosthadmeanthisremarkaboutthefood。Inhispack，whichanIndianhadbroughtfromhishorse，hecarriedsomegarmentsofcivilization。Andpresently，afterfreshwaterandnotalittlepainstakingwithbrushandscarf，therecamebacktothePadreayoungguestwhoseeleganceandbearingandeaseofthegreatworldweretotheexiledpriestassweetaswashistraveledconversation。
　　Theyrepairedtothehallandtooktheirseatsattheheadofthelongtable。FortheSpanishcenturiesofstatelycustomlivedatSantaYsabeI
　　delMar，inviolate，feudal，remote。
　　Theyweretheonlypersonsofqualitypresent；andbetweenthemselvesandthegentederazonaspaceintervened。BehindthePadre’schairstoodanIndiantowaftuponhim，andanotherstoodbehindthechairofGastonVillere。Eachoftheseservantsworeonesinglewhitegarment，andofferedthemanydishestothegentefinaandrefilledtheirglasses。Atthelowerendofthetableageneralattendantwafteduponmesclados——thehalf—breeds。Therewasmeatwithspices，androastedquail，withvariouscakesandotherpreparationsofgrain；alsothebrownfresholivesandgrapes，withseveralsortsoffigsandplums，andpreservedfruits，andwhiteandredwine——thewhitefiftyyearsold。Beneaththequietshiningofcandles，fresh—cutflowersleanedfromvesselsofoldMexicanandSpanishmake。
　　Thereatoneendofthisfeastsatthewild，pastoral，gaudycompany，speakinglittleovertheirfood；andthereattheotherthepalePadre，questioninghisvisitoraboutRachel。Themerenameofastreetwouldbringmemoriescrowdingtohislips；andwhenhisguesttoldhimofanewplayhewasreadywitholdquotationsfromthesameauthor。AlfreddeVignytheyspokeof，andVictorHugo，whomthePadredisliked。Longafterthedulce，orsweetdish，whenitwasthecustomforthevaquerosandtherestoftheretainerstoriseandleavethegentefinatothemselves，thehostsatonintheemptyhail，fondlytalkingtohisguestofhisbygoneParisandfondlylearningofthelaterParisthattheguesthadseen。Andthusthetwolingered，exchangingtheirenthusiasms，whilethecandleswaned，andthelong—hairedIndiansstoodsilentbehindthechairs。
　　"Butwemustgotomypiano，"thehostexclaimed。Foratlengththeyhadcometoalustydifferenceofopinion。ThePadre，withearscriticallydeaf，andwithsmiling，unconvincedeyes，wasshakinghishead，whileyoungGastonsangTrovatoreathim，andbeatuponthetablewithafork。
　　"Comeandconvertme，then，"saidPadreIgnacio，andheledtheway。
　　"DonizettiIhavealwaysadmitted。There，atleast，isrefinement。IftheworldhastakentothisVerdi，withhisstreet—bandmusic——Butthere，now！Sitdownandconvertme。Onlydon’tcrushmypoorlittleErardwithVerdi’shoofs。IbroughtitwhenIcame。Itisbehindthetimes，too。
　　And，oh，mydearboy，ourorganisstillworse。Soold，soold！TogetaproperoneIwouldsacrificeeventhispianoofmineinamoment——onlythetinklingthingisnotworthasoutoanybodyexceptitsmaster。Butthere！Areyouquitecomfortable？"Andhavingseentohisguest’sneeds，andplacedspiritsandcigarsandanash—traywithinhisreach，thePadresathimselfcomfortablyinhischairtohearandexposethefalsedoctrineofIlTrovatore。
　　BymidnightalloftheoperathatGastoncouldrecallhadbeenplayedandsungtwice。Theconvertsatinhischairnolonger，butstoodsingingbythepiano。Thepotentswingandflowofrhythms，thetorrid，copiousinspirationoftheSouth，masteredhim。"Verdihasgrown，"hecried。
　　"Verdiisbecomeagiant。"Andheswayedtothebeatofthemelodies，andwavedanenthusiasticarm。Hedemandedeverynote。WhydidnotGastonrememberitall？Butifthebarkentinewouldarriveandbringthewholemusic，thentheywouldhaveitright！AndhemadeGastonteachhimwhatwordsheknew。"’Nontiscorder，’"hesang——"’nontiscordardime。’Thatisgenius。Butoneseeshowtheworldmoveswhenoneisoutofit。’A
　　nostrimontiritorneremo’；hometoourmountains。Ah，yes，thereisgeniusagain。"Andtheexilesighedandhisspiritvoyagedtodistantplaces，whileGastoncontinuedbrilliantlywiththemusicofthefinalscene。
　　Thenthehostrememberedhisguest。"Iamashamedofmyselfishness，"hesaid。"Itisalreadyto—morrow。"
　　"Ihavesatlaterinlessgoodcompany，"answeredthepleasantGaston。
　　"AndIshallsleepallthesounderformakingaconvert。"
　　"Youhavedispensedroadsidealms，"saidthePadre，smiling，"andthatshouldwinexcellentdreams。"
　　Thus，withcourtesiesmoreelaboratethantheworldhastimeforatthepresentday，theybadeeachothergood—nightandparted，bearingtheirlatecandlesalongthequiethallsofthemission。ToyoungGastoninhisbedeasysleepcamewithoutwaiting，andnodreamsatail。Outsidehisopenwindowwasthequiet，serenedarkness，wherethestarsshoneclear，andtranquilperfumeshunginthecloisters。Butwhiletheguestlaysleepingallnightinunchangedpositionlikeachild，upanddownbetweentheoleanderswentPadreIgnacio，walkinguntildawn。Temptationindeedhadcomeoverthehillandenteredthecloisters。