"
Padre Francisco bows. It is, after all, only his due.
"When will you wish to leave?" queries Hardin.
"To-morrow, Judge. My little affairs are in readiness."
During the evening the light of the good priest glimmers late in
the lonely little sacristy. The chapel bell tolls the last vespers,
for long years, at Lagunitas.
All the precious family papers are accepted by the Judge when the
padre makes ready for his departure. The priest, with faltering
voice, says early mass, with a few attendants. Delivering up the
keys of the sacristy, chapel, and his home to the Judge, he quietly
shares the noonday meal.
If there is sadness in his heart his placid face shows it not. He
sits in the lonely room replete with memories of the past.
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.
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