But all this was lost on Jarman.

"Oh, another Italian," he said, relieved. She turned away a little
awkwardly when he added, "But you haven't told me YOUR name, you know."

"Cara."

"Cara,--that's 'dear' in Italian, isn't it?" he said, with a
reminiscence of the opera and a half smile.

"Yes," she said a little scornfully, "but it means Carlotta,--Charlotte,
you know. Some girls call me Charley," she said hurriedly.

"I see--Cara--or Carlotta Franti."

To his surprise she burst into a peal of laughter.

"I reckon not YET. Franti is Mark's name, not mine. Mine is
Murano,--Carlotta Murano. Good-by." She moved away, then stopped
suddenly and said, "I'm comin' again some time when the thing is
working," and with a nod of her head, ran away. He looked after her;
could see the outlines of her youthful figure in her slim cotton
gown,--limp and clinging in the damp sea air, and the sudden revelation
of her bare ankles thrust stockingless into canvas shoes.

He went back into his cabin, when presently his attention was engrossed
by an incoming vessel. He made the signals, half expecting, almost
hoping, that the girl would return to watch him. But her figure was
already lost in the sand dunes. Yet he fancied he still heard the echoes
of her voice and his own in this cabin which had so long been dumb and