He is gone for a half hour, after the wily Judge lights his cigar, to contemplate the rich domain which shall be his, from the porch of the old home. When the priest returns, it is from the graves of the loved dead. He has plucked the few flowers blooming there. They are in his hand. His eyes are moist with the silent tears of one who mourns the useless work of long years. They have been full of sadness, separation, spiritual defeat, and untimely death. Even Judge Hardin, merciless as he is, feels compassion for this lonely man. He has asked nothing of him. The situation is delicate. "Can I do anything for you, Father Francisco?" says Hardin, with some real feeling. He is a gentleman "in modo." The priest may be penniless. He must not go empty-handed. "Nothing, thank you, save to accept my adieux and my fondest blessing for the little Isabel." He hands Judge Hardin the address of the religious house to which he will retire in Paris. "I will deliver to your agent the other papers and certificates of the family. They are stored for safety at the Mission Dolores church." "My agent will have orders to do everything you wish," remarks the Judge, as the carriage drives up for the priest. Hardin arises, with a sudden impulse. The modest pride of this grave old French gentleman will not be rudely intruded on. He must not, he shall not, go away entirely empty-handed. The lawyer returns with an envelope, and hands it to the padre. "From the colonel," he says. "It is an order for ten thousand dollars upon his San Francisco bankers." "I will be taken care of by those who sent me here," simply remarks the padre. Hardin flushes. "You can use it, father, in France, for the poor, for the friendless; you will find some worthy objects." The priest bows gravely, and presses the hand of the lawyer. With one loving look around the old plaza, the sweeping forest arches, and the rolling billows of green, he leaves the lonely lake gleaming amid its wooded shores. Its beauty is untouched by the twenty long years since first he wandered by its shores. A Paradise in a forest. His few communicants have said adieu. There is nothing to follow him but the incense-breathing murmurs of the forest branches, from fragrant pine and stately redwood, sighing, "Go, in God's name." Their wind-wafted voices speak to him of the happy past. The quiet, saddened, patient padre trusts himself as freely to his unknown future, as a child in its mother's cradling arms. In his simple creed, "God is everywhere." So Fran‡ois Ribaut goes in peace to spend a few quiet days at the Mission Dolores church. He will then follow the wild ocean waves back to his beloved France. "Apres vingt ans." A month sees him nearing the beloved shores.