, honest earnestness,
advancing with outstretched hands, "believe me I am sincerely delighted,
overjoyed, again to meet--"

She had, however, quickly retreated as he approached, ensconcing herself
behind the high back of a large antique chair, on the cushion of which
she knelt. I regret to add also that she slapped his outstretched
fingers a little sharply with her inevitable black fan as he still
advanced.

"We are not in California. It is Washington. It is after midnight. I am
a poor girl, and I have to lose--what you call--'a character.' You shall
sit over there,"--she pointed to the sofa,--"and I shall sit here;" she
rested her boyish head on the top of the chair; "and we shall talk, for
I have to speak to you, Don Royal."

Thatcher took the seat indicated, contritely, humbly, submissively.
Carmen's little heart was touched. But she still went on over the back
of the chair.

"Don Royal," she said, emphasizing each word at him with her fan,
"before I saw you,--ever knew of you,--I was a child. Yes, I was but
a child! I was a bold, bad child;--and I was what you call
a--a--'forgaire'!"

"A what?" asked Thatcher, hesitating between a smile and a sigh.

"A forgaire!" continued Carmen demurely. "I did of myself write the
names of ozzer peoples;" when Carmen was excited she lost the control of
the English tongue; "I did write just to please myself;--it was my onkle
that did make of it money;--you understand, eh? Shall you not speak?
Must I again hit you?"

"Go on," said Thatcher laughing.

"I did find out, when I came to you at the mine, that I had forged
against you the name of Micheltorena. I to the lawyer went, and found
that it was so--of a verity--so! so! all the time. Look at me not now,
Don Royal;--it is a 'forgaire' you stare at."

"Carmen!"

"Hoosh! Shall I have to hit you again? I did overlook all the papers. I
found the application: it was written by me. There."

She tossed over the back of her chair an envelope to Thatcher. He opened
it.

"I see," he said gently, "you repossessed yourself of it!"

"What is that--'r-r-r-e--possess'?"

"Why!"--Thatcher hesitated--"you got possession of this paper,--this
innocent forgery,--again."

"Oh! You think me a thief as well as a 'forgaire.' Go away! Get up. Get
out."

"My dear girl--"

"Look at the paper! Will you? Oh, you silly!"

Thatcher looked at the paper. In paper, handwriting, age, and stamp it
was identical with the formal, clerical appli