In the southwestern quarter lay a beautiful fleecy mass of cloud: the under edges touched with exquisite rose-colour, sailing slowly down the sky--pushed by that same faint north wind. Just over it--just over it, sat a little star, shining at us with its unchanging ray. "Would your Tennessee friends see enough there to hold their thoughts for half a minute?" said I, when we had looked as long; but Mr. Ricardo did not answer me. "That painted cloud," said my father, "is like the pleasures of earth--catching the eye with fair hues; the star, like the better pleasures, that have their source above the earth. That light fills, indeed, it may be, a much smaller space in our eye, or our fancy, than the colours on the cloud; but mark,--it is pure, bright, and undying, while the other is a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away." I looked at the star, and I looked at my father, and my heart was full. I thought Mr. Ricardo had got enough, and I think he thought so too, for when we reached the far end of the walk, he left us, with a very hearty shake of the hand, indeed. My father and I walked then, without talking any more, till glow after glow passed away and night had set in. The little cloud had lost all its fair colours, and had drifted far down into the southern sky, a soft rack of gray vapour, and the star was shining steadily and brightly as ever in the deepening blue. [Illustration: C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman. Chromolith of P. S. Duval Phil. MISSION CHAPEL OF SAN JOSE, NEAR SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS.] THE MISSION CHURCH OF SAN JOSÉ.[19] BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN. Not far from San Antonio, Stands the Church of San José; Brightly its walls are gilded With the sun's departing ray. The long grass twines the arches through, And, stirred by evening air, Wave gracefully the vine's dark leaves, And bends the prickly pear. High, from its broken, mouldering top, The holy cross looks down, While round the open portals stand Figures of saints in stone. And round its ancient spires, In the turrets wide and high, While you watch the night-birds flap their wings, You hear their piercing cry. And ever and anon the bats, In clusters, seek their homes, As night, with shrouding mantle, On the Mission Chapel comes. Oh! 'twas not thus, when Jesuit priests Their chaunt at evening sung, As, echoing o'er the river's shores, The vesper bells were rung. Now, while we linger round its walls, Its history would we learn?-- How San José's walls and spires rose up?-- To its legends we must turn. In learning high, and cunning deep, With wealth and numbers, come-- Christians to make the red men all-- These haughty priests of Rome.