ail to Juan and told him to put it on the desk in her
office library; then she changed her mind, moved by an impulse of
feminine curiosity.

"Give me back that big letter, Juan. I'll just see what it is before I
go."

Five minutes later she descended to the porch. "I'm not going riding
just now. Keep the horse saddled, Pedro." She had read Dick Gordon's
note and the letter marked Exhibit A. Even careless Juan noticed that
his mistress was much agitated. Pedro wondered savagely whether that
splendid devil _Americano_ had done something fresh to annoy the dear
saint he worshiped.

Gordon had not overemphasized the effect upon her of his action. Her
pride had clung to a belief in his unworthiness as the justification for
what she had said and done. Now, with a careless and mocking laugh, he
had swept aside all the arguments she had nursed. He had sent to her, so
that she might destroy it, the letter that would have put her case out
of court. If he had wanted a revenge for her bitter words the American
had it now. He had repaid her scorn and contempt with magnanimity. He
had heaped coals of fire upon her head, had humiliated her by proving
that he was more generous of spirit than she.

Valencia paced the floor of her library in a stress of emotion. It was
not her pride alone that had been touched, but the fine instincts of
justice and fair play and good will. She had outraged hospitality and
sent him packing. She had let him take the long tramp in spite of his
bad knee. Her dependents had attempted to murder him. Her best friend
had tried to fasten a duel upon him. All over the valley his name had
been bandied about as that of one in league with the devil. As an answer
to all this outrage that had been heaped upon him he refused to take
advantage of this chance-found letter of Bartolome merely because it was
her letter and not his. Her heart was bowed down with shame and yet was
lifted in a warm glow of appreciation of his quality. Something in her
blood sang with gladness. She had known all along that the hateful
things she had said to him could not be true. He was her enemy, but--the
brave spirit of her went out in a rush to thank God for this proof of
his decency.

The girl was all hot for action. She wanted to humble herself in
apology. She wanted to show him that she could respond to his
generosity. But how? Only one way was open just now.

She sat down and wrote a swift, impulsive letter of contrition. For the