logic that his hot Latin blood chilled in his veins, and he stood livid
on the road. Then, informing Dick Shipley with equally relentless calm
that she might feel it necessary to change ALL her foremen unless
they could agree in harmony, she sought the dignified seclusion of
her castle. But her respected parents, whose triumphant relief at the
stranger's departure had emboldened them to await her return in their
porch with bended bows of invective and lifted javelins of aggression,
recoiled before the resistless helm of this cold-browed Minerva, who
galloped contemptuously past them.

Nevertheless, she sat late that night at her desk. The cold moon looked
down upon her window, and lit up the empty porch where her silent guest
had mutely watched her. For a moment she regretted that he had recovered
his reason, excusing herself on the practical ground that he would never
have known his dependence, and he would have been better cared for
by her. She felt restless and uneasy. This slight divergence from the
practical groove in which her life had been set had disturbed her in
many other things, and given her the first views of the narrowness of
it.

Suddenly she heard a step in the porch. The lateness of the hour,
perhaps some other reason, seemed to startle her, and she half rose.
The next moment the figure of Miguel appeared at the doorway, and with
a quick, hurried look around him, and at the open window, he approached
her. He was evidently under great excitement, his hollow shaven
cheek looked like a waxen effigy in the mission church; his yellow,
tobacco-stained eye glittered like phosphorescent amber, his lank
gray hair was damp and perspiring; but more striking than this was the
evident restraint he had put upon himself, pressing his broad-brimmed
sombrero with both of his trembling yellow hands against his breast. The