“Do not speak of me at all!” exclaimed the padre, almost passionately. “But pray Heaven that you may find the thing yourself some day --contentment with renunciation--and never let it go.” “Amen!” said Gaston, strangely moved. “That is the whole of my story,” the priest continued, with no more of the recent stress in his voice. “And now I have talked to you about myself quite enough. But you must have my confession.” He had now resumed entirely his half-playful tone. “I was just a little mistaken, you see too self-reliant, perhaps--when I supposed, in my first missionary ardor, that I could get on without any remembrance of the world at all. I found that I could not. And so I have taught the old operas to my choir--such parts of them as are within our compass and suitable for worship. And certain of my friends still alive at home are good enough to remember this taste of mine, and to send me each year some of the new music that I should never hear of otherwise. Then we study these things also. And although our organ is a miserable affair, Felipe manages very cleverly to make it do. And while the voices are singing these operas, especially the old ones, what harm is there if sometimes the priest is thinking of something else? So there's my confession! And now, whether 'Trovatore' has come or not, I shall not allow you to leave us until you have taught all you know of it to Felipe.” The new opera, however, had duly arrived. And as he turned its pages Padre Ignazio was quick to seize at once upon the music that could be taken into his church. Some of it was ready fitted. By that afternoon Felipe and his choir could have rendered “Ah! se l'error t' ingombra” without slip or falter. Those were strange rehearsals of “Il Trovatore” upon this California shore. For the padre looked to Gaston to say when they went too fast or too slow, and to correct their emphasis. And since it was hot, the little Erard piano was carried each day out into the mission garden. There, in the cloisters among the oleanders, in the presence of the tall yellow hills and the blue triangle of sea, the “Miserere” was slowly learned. The Mexicans and Indians gathered, swarthy and black-haired, around the tinkling instrument that Felipe played; and presiding over them were young Gaston and the pale padre, walking up and down the paths, beating time, or singing now one part and now another. And so it was that the wild cattle on the uplands would hear “Trovatore” hummed by a passing vaquero, while the same melody was filling the streets of the far-off world. For three days Gaston Villere remained at Santa Ysabel del Mar; and though not a word of the sort came from him, his host could read San Francisco and the gold-mines in his countenance. No, the young man could not have stayed here for twenty years! And the padre forbore urging his guest to extend his visit.