ject of my errand. "We found the gallery farther away
than I expected, and----"

"Vhen ve get dthere it vas close," says the Baron in a calm,
well-controlled voice. The carriage is announced, and we bid Mrs.
Baldwin good-bye. The drive home is very quiet, and we say good-night
to the Baron in the vestibule.

Mrs. Steele oddly enough asks me no questions, and I know her
disapproval must be strong. I think little about that, however--I am
going over and over that sharp conflict in the dim, deserted street.
Did it really happen or did I dream it! This is the nineteenth century
and I am a plain American girl to whom nothing remarkable ever
happened before, and yet it _was_ true! How was I to blame for
it--what will the Baron do--how long will he remember? My last waking
sensation is a weary surprise to find my pillow wet with tears.

Mrs. Steele rouses me the next morning, holding an open letter in her
hand:

"Blanche! Blanche! Wake up! We've overslept and lost our train. Here's
a note the Baron's just sent up. The servant has neglected to call him
as well, and he thinks we could not by any exertion catch the train we
intended. He has ascertained that a 'special' leaving Guatemala two
hours after regular train time will reach San Jose an hour at least
before the steamer can possibly sail. He has engaged this 'special'
and will see us safely on board at ten o'clock. He begs I will excuse
his absence at breakfast, as he has already been served, and remains
with assurances of his profound regard, my obedient servant, Federico
Guillermo de Bach! So there's no time to be lost!"

My friend returns to her room to dress; I sit bolt upright in bed
staring straight before me at the great shaft of yellow sunlight that
lies across the floor. "You and I go not back to _San Miguel_ unless
you air my vife." Was it a curious dream or had he said those words?

"Are you hurrying, Blanche?" calls Mrs. Steele. "It won't do to miss
our last train unless you've decided you would like to stay in
Guatemala."

I fly out of bed and begin to rush into my clothes. Mrs. Steele's
voice has a touch of sarcasm in it that reminds me she may still be
dissatisfied and suspicious about last night. "She mustn't think
there's been any scene," I admonish myself; "she would say it was
entirely my fault, and she will lose all confidence in me. No! Mrs.
Steele must never know!"

As we enter the breakfast room an officious waiter bows and scrapes,
and sea