an absolute foreigner, having no knowledge whatever of English, and that he was possessed of an extraordinary activity, which enabled him, if the gate of the back yard of the hotel happened to be locked, to go over the eight-foot fence with the agility of a monkey, had a great effect in protecting him from impositions by other servants.  When a black negro cannot speak English, but can bound like an india-rubber ball, it may not be safe to trifle with him.  As for trifling with Cheditafa, no one would think of such a thing; his grave and reverend aspect was his most effectual protection.

As to Ralph, he had altered in appearance almost as much as his sister.  His apparel no longer indicated the boy, and as he was tall and large for his years, the fashionable suit he wore, his gay scarf with its sparkling pin, and his brightly polished boots, did not appear out of place upon him.  But Edna often declared that she had thought him a great deal better-looking in the scanty, well-worn, but more graceful garments in which he had disported himself on the sands of Peru.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE CAPTAIN’S LETTER

On a sofa in her well-furnished parlor reclined Edna, and on a table near by lay several sheets of closely written letter-paper.  She had been reading, and now she was thinking—­thinking very intently, which in these days was an unusual occupation with her.  During her residence in San Francisco she had lived quietly but cheerfully.  She had supplied herself abundantly with books, she had visited theatres and concerts, she had driven around the city, she had taken water excursions, she had visited interesting places in the neighborhood, and she had wandered among the shops, purchasing, in moderation, things that pleased her.  For company she had relied chiefly on her own little party, although there had been calls from persons who knew Captain Horn.  Some of these people were interesting, and some were not, but they all went away thinking that the captain was a wonderfully fortunate man.

One thing which used to be a pleasure to Edna she refrained from altogether, and that was the making of plans.  She had put her past life entirely behind her.  She was beginning a new existence—­what sort of an existence she could not tell, but she was now living with the determinate purpose of getting the greatest good out of her life, whatever it might be.

Already she had had much, but in every respect her good fortunes were but preliminary to something else.  Her marriage was but the raising of the curtain—­the play had not yet begun.  The money she was spending was but an earnest of something more expected.  Her newly developed physical beauty, which she could not fail to appreciate, would fade away again, did it not continue to be nourished by that which gave it birth.  But what she had, she had, and that she would enjoy.  When Captain Horn should return,