he read them over. But that Rosa would thrill to them he had no
doubt, nor had he any fear that she would hesitate to leave her
native land for him. O'Reilly's love was unlimited; his trust in
the girl was absolute. He knew, moreover, that she loved and
trusted him. This, to be sure, was a miracle--a unique phenomenon
which never ceased to amaze him. He did not dream that every man
had felt the same vague wonder.

And so the time passed rapidly. But, strange to say, there came no
answer to those letters. O'Reilly chafed: he cursed the revolution
which had made communication so uncertain; at length he cabled,
but still the days dragged on with no result. Gradually his
impatience gave way to apprehension. Unreasonable conjectures
besieged his mind and destroyed his peace.

Great was his relief, therefore, when one day a worn, stained
envelope addressed in Rosa's hand was laid upon his desk. The
American stamp, the Key West postmark, looked strange, but--Her
first letter! O'Reilly wondered if his first letter to her could
possibly have moved her as this moved him. He kissed the envelope
where her lips had caressed it in the sealing. Then with eager
fingers he broke it open.

It was a generous epistle, long and closely written, but as he
read his keen delight turned to dismay, and when he had turned the
last thin page his brain was in wildest turmoil. He thought he
must be dreaming. He turned sick, aching eyes upon his
surroundings to prove this thing a nightmare, but the prosaic
clink of a typewriter and the drone of a voice dictating
quotations on Brazilian coffee were conclusive evidence to the