word, or some piece of a tune, or some smell such as this coffee, brings them out again, as fresh as yesterday. Yes, yes; it is very strange."
Doña Magdalena's eyes were very tender as she placed her hand on Borromeo's shoulder, pausing amoment in her flitting between grate and the trencher that she was heaping with meat to be carried by the Indian boys to the padres' table. She said nothing; only touched his shoulder as one gives an encouraging, commending caress to a child. Borromeo bent over his plate, busy with his great hunger, a serene, a happy man.
"Do you know what the business of this fine governor is in the south?" Borromeo lifted his face presently to inquire.
"He has come to investigate the many false charges that have been lodged against the missions," Magdalena replied.
"I thought Don Geronimo would have the reason of it," Borromeo nodded. "So, they have carried their case to the governor? What is it they are crying about, our sheep?"
"The Angelenos say the padres of San Fernando are oppressors because they built a dam in the river years before the pueblo was established. That is one thing. Another cry of oppression rises from the ranchers, from Pico and the rest of them around us, but from Pico especially, who says the sheep have destroyed his grazing and he has no place left to pasture his cattle. The others join him in this—you have heard that complaint these two years."
