Mechanically I counted the tolls, until their number had reached sixteen, then the old bells paused a moment before they again repeated the years of the youthful dead. Upon approaching nearer I perceived that a funeral procession had just left the church. An assistant priest and a barefooted Mexican altar-boy stood framed in the arch of the ancient portal. The sad little procession was now entering the old graveyard at the rear of the Mission. I could hear the sobs of the mourners, and my heart went out to the poor mother, garbed in faded mourning, bowed with both grief and labor. The little coffin was borne on a bier by six swarthy young Mexicans, possibly one of them the lover of the dead girl. The sight was pathetic, and at this particular time I felt it to be more than I could bear. A moment later I peered into the old church--it was empty. Where now could I go? To whom should I apply for help? Father Ramirez was evidently not about; a strange priest had followed the funeral procession, and doubtless the old friend of the Del Valles had gone at once with Arturo. I had probably missed passing them by taking a different road, having endeavored to shorten the distance by a cut through a ranch. Mechanically I climbed into the buggy, believing that there was no course left but to return home for assistance, when in the distance I saw, almost like a sign from on high, the deserted hotel of East San Gabriel. Without stopping to consider the probable absurdity of my surmise, I started the old horse upon the maddest race of his life. In my excitement the wielding of the whip was a nervous joy. The old bones of the beast seemed almost to crack as he leaped along the road. All at once I seemed to be acting without reason, for when I at last entered the grounds of the deserted caravansary, there were no evidences to justify my suspicions. The summer's silence was intense; not a human being was visible, and the desolation pervading the deserted resort was sickening as well as satisfying. I felt that I had been absurd to believe for a moment that Mariposilla could have wished to reënter the place, and I was also convinced that, in her feeble condition, she could never have walked the distance from the ranch. The old horse was now resting in front of the silent hotel, and my very inaction was unbearable. I racked my brain to the verge of despair, before I again hit upon a possible explanation for Mariposilla's disappearance. Why had I not thought of it before? Why had I taken it for granted that Arturo had gone alone for Father Ramirez? The priest drove always in his own conveyance, and what could be more natural than to believe that Arturo had induced Mariposilla to accompany him upon his errand? Was it not reasonable to believe that the young people had laid aside their personal feelings at such a time, desiring to perform together a last, trifling duty to the dead grandmother?