Close by, and built at right angles to the rear wall of Father José’s own house, rose the north wall of the chapel of San Felipe--a mud wall, up which some vines straggled. Against the vines, and half-screened by them, leaned a blanket-wrapped figure. Now, Paloma neared the window, but without looking out, and sat down on the wide ledge, so that she was in full sight of the waiting man by the wall. Then, she turned to Señor John’s easel with a great show of interest. “You are making a picture of Los Morales!” she began. “Am I not quick at guessing? You see it could not be Albuquerque, for you have put flat roofs on the houses. And it is not _old_ Albuquerque, because--oh, _padrecito!_ here is your house, and the garden, and the church with the little tower! Paint a bell in the tower, señor, since we have none.” And she smiled up at Señor John saucily. “My daughter!” chided Father José, almost sternly, “do not jest of the bell!” “So there was a bell--once,” said the young painter. The father folded a damp napkin, covered his salad, and set the white-and-gold dish away carefully on a shelf. Then he came over and stood beside the easel, one slender hand clasping the other, and both held against the jet cross that swung on his breast. He was short and lean, with straight, white hair; a pale, bulging, bald forehead; a high nose; thin cheeks--upon each a spot of scarlet; and dark eyes that were on occasions alive with almost childish fun, nearly extinguished by laughter and as full of glints as the big, shining, brown-black beads of his rosary, but which, at other times, were wide, serene, and luminous. “It was when there were mulberry-trees here by the river,” he began, “--the trees that gave the pueblo its name. There are some who say that mulberry-trees were never here; or, if trees were indeed here, they were only of the cottonwood. But these doubters think also”--a gentle smile parted his lips--“that the silver bell of Los Morales is only a legend.” “The _silver_ bell,” repeated Señor John.