The third day, which should have brought the return of Antonio, was nearly spent.  Father Pedro was impatient but not alarmed.  The good fathers at San Jose might naturally detain Antonio for the answer, which might require deliberation.  If any mischance had occurred to Francisco, Antonio would have returned or sent a special messenger.  At sunset he was in his accustomed seat in the orchard, his hands clasped over the breviary in his listless lap, his eyes fixed upon the mountain between him and that mysterious sea that had brought so much into his life.  He was filled with a strange desire to see it, a vague curiosity hitherto unknown to his preoccupied life; he wished to gaze upon that strand, perhaps the very spot where she had been found; he doubted not his questioning eyes would discover some forgotten trace of her; under his persistent will and aided by the Holy Virgin, the sea would give up its secret.  He looked at the fog creeping along the summit, and recalled the latest gossip of San Carmel; how that since the advent of the Americanos it was gradually encroaching on the Mission.  The hated name vividly recalled to him the features of the stranger as he had stood before him three nights ago, in this very garden; so vividly that he sprang to his feet with an exclamation.  It was no fancy, but Senor Cranch himself advancing from under the shadow of a pear tree.

“I reckoned I’d catch you here,” said Mr. Cranch, with the same dry, practical business fashion, as if he were only resuming an interrupted conversation, “and I reckon I ain’t going to keep you a minit longer than I did t’other day.”  He mutely referred to his watch, which he already held in his hand, and then put it back in his pocket.  “Well! we found her!”

“Francisco,” interrupted the priest with a single stride, laying his hand upon Cranch’s arm, and staring into his eyes.

Mr. Cranch quietly removed Father Pedro’s hand.  “I reckon that wasn’t the name as I caught it,” he returned dryly.  “Hadn’t you better sit down?”

“Pardon me—­pardon me, Senor,” said the priest, hastily sinking back upon his bench, “I was thinking of other things.  You—­you—­came upon me suddenly.  I thought it was the acolyte.  Go on, Senor!  I am interested.”

“I thought you’d be,” said Cranch, quietly.  “That’s why I came.  And then you might be of service too.”

“True, true,” said the priest, with rapid accents; “and this girl, Senor, this girl is”—­

“Juanita, the mestiza, adopted daughter of Don Juan Briones, over on the Santa Clare Valley,” replied Cranch, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, and then sitting down upon the bench beside Father Pedro.

The priest turned his feverish eyes piercingly upon his companion for a few seconds, and then doggedly fixed them upon the ground.  Cranch drew a plug of tobacco from his pocket, cut off a portion, placed it in his cheek, and then quietly began to strap the blade of his jack-knife upon his boot.  Father Pedro saw it from under his eyelids, and even in his preoccupation despised him.