Then one of the nuns came and let me in, across a beautiful garden to the convent school.

I placed my little daughter as a day pupil there, as she was now eleven years old.

The nuns spoke very little English and the children none at all.
The entire city was ancient, Spanish, Catholic, steeped in a religious atmosphere and in what the average American Protestant would call the superstitions of the dark ages.

There were endless fiestas, and processions and religious services, I saw them all and became much interested in reading the history of the Catholic missions, established so early out through what was then a wild and unexplored country.

After that, I listened with renewed interest to old Father de Fouri, who had tended and led his flock of simple people so long and so lovingly.
There was a large painting of Our Lady of Guadaloupe over the altar--these people firmly believed that she had appeared to them, on the earth, and so strong was the influence around me that I began almost to believe it too.