Lighting his pipe, he
would sit down on the old bench in his tile-paved veranda, and
smoke by the hour, gazing out on the placid water of the deserted
harbor, brooding, ever brooding, over the wrongs he could not
redress.
A few paces off from his door stood the just begun walls of a fine
brick church, which it had been the dream and pride of his heart to
see builded, and full of worshippers. This, too, had failed. With
San Diego's repeatedly vanishing hopes and dreams of prosperity
had gone this hope and dream of Father Gaspara's. It looked, now,
as if it would be indeed a waste of money to build a costly church
on this site. Sentiment, however sacred and loving towards the
dead, must yield to the demands of the living. To build a church on
the ground where Father Junipero first trod and labored, would be
a work to which no Catholic could be indifferent; but there were
other and more pressing claims to be met first. This was right. Yet
the sight of these silent walls, only a few feet high, was a sore one
to Father Gaspara,-- a daily cross, which he did not find grow
lighter as he paced up and down his veranda, year in and year out,
in the balmy winter and cool summer of that magic climate.
Pages:
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492