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 forever 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 Shakespeare, Dante, Moliere, and Cervantes. These were here also; nor could it 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 florid Southern gravity which his Northern education had not wholly schooled out of him that he said: “I fear that I am no scholar, sir. But I know what writers every gentleman ought to respect.” The subtle 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 richly everywhere, making a pleasant disorder; and as perfume comes out of 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?” said 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.”