And his smile had an ecclesiastical as well as a human significance, the pleasantest object in his prospect being the fair and curly head of his boy acolyte and chorister, Francisco, which appeared among the vines, and his sweetest pastoral music, the high soprano humming of a chant with which the boy accompanied his gardening.
Suddenly the acolyte's chant changed to a cry of terror.

Running rapidly to Father Pedro's side, he grasped his sotana, and even tried to hide his curls among its folds.
"'St! 'st!" said the Padre, disengaging himself with some impatience.
"What new alarm is this?
Is it Luzbel hiding among our Catalan vines, or one of those heathen Americanos from Monterey?
Speak!" "Neither, holy father," said the boy, the color struggling back into his pale cheeks, and an apologetic, bashful smile lighting his clear eyes.
"Neither; but oh! such a gross, lethargic toad! And it almost leaped upon me." "A toad leaped upon thee!" repeated the good father with evident vexation.

"What next?
I tell thee, child, those foolish fears are most unmeet for thee, and must be overcome, if necessary, with prayer and penance.

Frightened by a toad! Blood of the Martyrs! 'Tis like any foolish girl!" Father Pedro stopped and coughed.
"I am saying that no Christian child should shrink from any of God's harmless creatures.

And only last week thou wast disdainful of poor Murieta's pig, forgetting that San Antonio himself did elect one his faithful companion, even in glory." "Yes, but it was so fat, and so uncleanly, holy father," replied the young acolyte, "and it smelt so." "Smelt so ?" echoed the father doubtfully.