It was a very lovely day on the 17th of March (indeed, I suppose it had been preceded by 364 days exactly like it) as we sat upon the gallery looking on the garden, a garden of oranges, roses, citrons, lemons, peaches—­what fruit and flower was not growing there?—­acres and acres of vineyard beyond, with the tall cane and willows by the stream, and the purple mountains against the sapphire sky.  Was there ever anything more exquisite than the peach-blossoms against that blue sky!  Such a place of peace.  A soft south wind was blowing, and all the air was drowsy with the hum of bees.  In the garden is a vine-covered arbor, with seats and tables, and at the end of it is the opening into a little chapel, a domestic chapel, carpeted like a parlor, and bearing all the emblems of a loving devotion.  By the garden gate hang three small bells, from some old mission, all cracked, but serving (each has its office) to summon the workmen or to call to prayer.

Perfect system reigns in Signora Del Valle’s establishment, and even the least child in it has its duty.  At sundown a little slip of a girl went out to the gate and struck one of the bells.  “What is that for?” I asked as she returned.  “It is the Angelus,” she said simply.  I do not know what would happen to her if she should neglect to strike it at the hour.  At eight o’clock the largest bell was struck, and the Signora and all her household, including the house servants, went out to the little chapel in the garden, which was suddenly lighted with candles, gleaming brilliantly through the orange groves.  The Signora read the service, the household responding—­a twenty minutes’ service, which is as much a part of the administration of the establishment as visiting the granaries and presses, and the bringing home of the goats.  The Signora’s apartments, which she permitted us to see, were quite in the nature of an oratory, with shrines and sacred pictures and relics of the faith.  By the shrine at the head of her bed hung the rosary carried by Father Junipero,—­a priceless possession.  From her presses and armoires, the Signora, seeing we had a taste for such things, brought out the feminine treasures of three generations, the silk and embroidered dresses of last century, the ribosas, the jewelry, the brilliant stuffs of China and Mexico, each article with a memory and a flavor.

But I must not be betrayed into writing about Ramona’s house.  How charming indeed it was the next morning,—­though the birds in the garden were astir a little too early,—­with the thermometer set to the exact degree of warmth without languor, the sky blue, the wind soft, the air scented with orange and jessamine.  The Signora had already visited all her premises before we were up.  We had seen the evening before an enclosure near the house full of cashmere goats and kids, whose antics were sufficiently amusing—­most of them had now gone afield; workmen were coming for their orders, plowing was going on in the barley fields,