Suddenly she stopped and put back her hair from her brown temples.  Then a succession of burning blushes followed each other in waves from her neck up, and died in drops of moisture in her eyes.  This continued until she was fairly crying, dropping the letter from her hands and rocking to and fro.  In the midst of this she quickly stopped again; the clouds broke, a sunshine of laughter started from her eyes, she laughed shyly, she laughed loudly, she laughed hysterically.  Then she stopped again as suddenly, knitted her brows, swooped down once more upon the letter, and turned to fly.  But at the same moment the letter was quietly but firmly taken from her hand, and Mr. Jack Cranch stood beside her.

Juanita was crimson, but unconquered.  She mechanically held out her hand for the letter; the American took her little fingers, kissed them, and said: 

“How are you again?”

“The letter,” replied Juanita, with a strong disposition to stamp her foot.

“But,” said Cranch, with business directness, “you’ve read enough to know it isn’t for you.”

“Nor for you either,” responded Juanita.

“True.  It is for the Reverend Father Superior of San Jose Mission.  I’ll give it to him.”

Juanita was becoming alarmed, first at this prospect, second at the power the stranger seemed to be gaining over her.  She recalled Francisco’s description of him with something like superstitious awe.

“But it concerns Francisco.  It contains a secret he should know.”

“Then you can tell him it.  Perhaps it would come easier from you.”

Juanita blushed again.  “Why?” she asked, half dreading his reply.

“Because,” said the American, quietly, “you are old playmates; you are attached to each other.”

Juanita bit her lips.  “Why don’t you read it yourself?” she asked bluntly.

“Because I don’t read other people’s letters, and if it concerns me you’ll tell me.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then the Father Superior will.”

“I believe you know Francisco’s secret already,” said the girl, boldly.

“Perhaps.”

“Then, Mother of God!  Senor Crancho, what do you want?”

“I do not want to separate two such good friends as you and Francisco.”

“Perhaps you’d like to claim us both,” said the girl, with a sneer that was not devoid of coquetry.

“I should be delighted.”

“Then here is your occasion, Senor, for here comes my adopted father, Don Juan, and your friend, Senor Br—­r—­own, the American alcalde.”

Two men appeared in the garden path below them.  The stiff, glazed, broad-brimmed black hat, surmounting a dark face of Quixotic gravity and romantic rectitude, indicated Don Juan Briones.  His companion, lazy, specious, and red-faced, was Senor Brown, the American alcalde.