Philip stood looking down, with his hand lightly resting on Isabel's shoulder. Beyond the fountain, before the timeworn cloister, sat an aged brother surrounded by monks. It was plain that the old brother was ill, perhaps nearing the end of a chosen life on earth, for he was speaking to the young monks, who seemed to hang on every word, hovering around his chair with awkward, masculine devotion. In all probability these same vigorous men would carry the old brother on his bier to the little cemetery, where he might displace the whitened bones of some monk long dead and forgotten.

As Philip gazed down on the scene below, translating as well he might the end of justified means to Catholic grace, his eyes filled with tears. For some unaccountable reason the dying monk suggested his mother. The reproach which she had never given him in life now seemed to ascend from the old garden—from the invalid brother leaning back on pillows. Philip turned away, and Isabel saw that he was hurt. Instantly her hand held his. "Let us go," she implored. But he smiled back refusal.

"I was just thinking of my mother," he confessed. "You must not forget that she was a Catholic, consistent and happy to the end of her days. I could not help associating her in my mind with the good brother below us. I have been told that an old monk has never been known to pass away with regret; only the young ones, sometimes, feel restless in the cloister."

He had not spoken in this manner before. Isabel covertly scanned his countenance. His cheeks held a slight hollow, almost imperceptible, except when his face was turned in a certain way. Standing with his back to the light, in the arch of the belfry, his eyes seemed too bright for normal condition. Isabel remembered the strain of his past year.

"Let us not climb above onto the roof," she pleaded. Still he would not forego the broader view, and helped her to cross from one tower to the other. As they halted, spellbound, to breathe mountain air, to drink salt breeze, Isabel again looked at her husband. He was smiling in sensuous pleasure. It came to her joyously that time alone could heal his wounded spirit. It seemed manly that he should be able to delight in his present environment without prejudice; that he should face phases of Catholic power without pain. It were preposterous to try to wipe out the realm of Romish influence; for to do that meant to give up "old world" cathedrals and universal art, inspired by popes and cardinals. Yes, Philip was wise to tread his new way freely as a free man.

But when they had descended from the tower Isabel stood undecided. "Are you sure that you wish to enter the church?" she asked.

Her husband hesitated, with eyes on the stone floor. The flashing recollection of an awful interdict held him; then he looked up. "I am no longer a Catholic," he acknowledged coldly. "I have the right to see the interior of the mission church, like any other American citizen. Come, let us hasten."

Isabel followed, dimly conscious of his defiant mood. The brother, waiting without, led them across ancient flagstones to timeworn steps of generous dimension. In fancy Philip saw flocking dark-faced Indians of early days mounting to service. The work of the unselfish fathers accused him even before he entered the fine old edifice; but he went on, with intent to stifle all but esthetic feeling. He felt relieved when his wife assumed a questioning attitude that was cordially appreciated by the brother in charge.

Here in the old church, by the side of a brown-habited monk, Isabel shone as usual. It became clear to Philip that his wife and not himself attracted their guide. He walked on, listening to the brother's story of early mission life and art, with no outward sign of inculcated knowledge. At every curtained confessional, before Spanish pictures of saints, at every sacred shrine, he told himself defiantly that he played no dishonorable part. The curious temper of the observer condoned his bold action. He was "a stranger within the gates." He went forward to the foot of the chancel as a man in a dream. That less than two years back he might have penetrated with full right beyond to the flower-dressed altar brought him a momentary pang, but he stifled it and looked at Isabel. Did she know—understand? Her serene face expressed no undercurrent of emotion. The reserve force of splendid womanhood had walled in her husband's past with natural, incidental, impersonal interest for everything at hand. Then, as they stood on listening to the brother's fervent account of work done by early mission Indians, notes from the organ broke the strain; while presently a baritone voice of wonderful quality floated below from the choir loft. Isabel turned in surprise. Even at the far end of the church she saw clearly the two young monks who had gone through the heavy door to the secret garden. The tall, lithe-limbed monk was the singer; his cloister brother accompanied him on the organ.

"How beautiful!" she exclaimed, sitting down by Philip, in a convenient pew. "They are practicing—for service?" she asked.

The brother in charge nodded. He seemed disappointed that his own rhetorical opportunity should be eclipsed by the mere song of a youngster. But the charming heretic no longer listened to a story of dark, slow-moving converts. Her eyes had ceased to rest on fantastic colored designs carved by early Indians and now transferred to the new wooden ceiling of the old church. The voice in the choir loft held her; and with a woman's will she chose to end the brother's attentions. Besides, Philip seemed worn with sacred tradition.

"We have enjoyed everything very much!" she said with enthusiasm. "If we may come another day for a glimpse of the old cemetery, we should now prefer to listen to the music." She smiled, one hand extended. As the brother hesitated she drew a goldpiece from her glove. When Philip too responded with natural impulse, the brown monk moved away. He turned once to look back, then went on. They caught the gleam in his eyes. After all, they had paid in full, were not intruders in the mission always open to a curious public.