the second time
to change your views--if you find"--

"I will let you know," she said quickly. "I will write to you as I
intended."

"No, I didn't mean that. I meant that if you found the woman less
inconceivable and more human, don't write to me, but put your red lamp
in your window instead of the blue one. I will watch for it and see it."

"I think I will be able to explain myself much better with simple pen
and ink," she said dryly, "and it will be much more useful to you."

He lifted his hat gravely, shoved off the boat, leaped into it, and
before she could hold out her hand was twenty feet away. She turned and
ran quickly up the rocks. When she reached the hotel, she could see the
boat already half across the bay.

Entering her sitting-room she found that her brother, tired of waiting
for her, had driven out. Taking the hidden manuscript from her cloak
she tossed it with a slight gesture of impatience on the table. Then she
summoned the landlord.

"Is there a town across the bay?"

"No! the whole mountain-side belongs to Don Diego Fletcher. He lives
away back in the coast range at Los Gatos, but he has a cottage and mill
on the beach."

"Don Diego Fletcher--Fletcher! Is he a Spaniard then?"

"Half and half, I reckon; he's from the lower country, I believe."

"Is he here often?"

"Not much; he has mills at Los Gatos, wheat ranches at Santa Clara, and
owns a newspaper in 'Frisco! But he's here now. There were lights in his
house last night, and his cutter lies off the point."

"Could you get a small package and note to him?"

"Certainly; it is only a row across the bay."

"Thank you."

Without removing her hat and cloak she sat down at the table and began a
letter to Don Diego Fletcher. She begged to inclose to him a manuscript
which she was satisfied, for the interests of its author, was better in
his hands than hers. It had been given to her by the author, Mr. J. M.
Harcourt, whom she understood was engaged on Mr. Fletcher's paper, the
"Clarion." In fact, it had been written at HER suggestion, and from an
incident in real life of which she was cognizant. She was sorry to say
that on account of some very foolish criticism of her own as to the
FACTS, the talented young author had become so dissatisfied with it as
to make it possible that, if left to himself, this very charming and
beautifully written story would remain unpublished. As an admirer of
Mr. Harcourt's genius, and a friend of his family