"The Indians are but overgrown children, and are incapable of caring for themselves, except under strict tutelage. So said the great missionary, Padre Junipero Serra, and the years have shown the wisdom of his thought." Thus, Padre Suscol, of Sonoma. "Years ago I gave each of my Indians his piece of land. They are working it for themselves, and ably. Padre Junipero spoke of the issue as he knew it sixty years ago, and most wise were his words, but he could not foresee present-day needs," was Mendoza's reply. "The procedure that you propose will impoverish the Mission," remonstrated another friar. "Many of the hacenderos are giving each year a tithe to the Mission. Let the Indians be instructed to do the same, either in money or in labor," rejoined Mendoza. Osuna lifted his eyes. "Why load this burden on our neophytes?" "To teach them the necessity of self-reliance. They should become of age, as regards development of mind." "Their old teachers should determine that," from Padre Mercado. "The state determines when our sons and daughters attain their majority, not we," from Mendoza. "Why oppress our neophyte children with this becoming of age just at this time?" questioned Osuna. "Because it is not a day too soon. Men of many nations begin to flock here. Westward the course of civilization must come. It is destiny. We cannot stay it. Then, why not meet it? We, Spaniard and Indian, must stand on our own feet, accept from the newcomer what will strengthen our moral and spiritual fiber, and give back as much of ourselves as will benefit others. Therefore must we be self-reliant." The room was still. Padre Osuna spoke after a moment. "Circumstances have but now arisen which preclude me from giving Señor Mendoza reply. That, as well as the adjustment of other affairs here, will have to fall to some one else. Soon will I make explanation." Turning to Mendoza: "Shall I find the Señor Mendoza at his house late this afternoon?" Mendoza bowed. "At your service, señor padre." "Brethren, I will return to you in a moment." The padre conducted the Administrator down a long corridor, into the courtyard, toward the lodge. An elderly woman was walking under a vine-covered trellis. "Mother," tenderly from the friar, "I am sorry to keep you waiting; but there are many things to do, and only a short time." The snowy-haired woman had advanced a few steps to meet her son. She stopped abruptly. She was not looking at the padre, but at Señor Mendoza. "My mother, allow me to present to you--" began the friar. "The Lady Romalda!" exclaimed Mendoza, the words clutching his throat. "Don José!" she cried, holding out her hands, her lips trembling. Señor Mendoza took her hands in his, and, bending low, reverently kissed the finger-tips. "Romalda! Romalda!" The padre looked at the two in questioning wonder. The woman and the man seemed to have slipped the years from their shoulders, and to be standing again in youth.