“Miss Keene?—­I beg your pardon”—­

“Mr. Hurlstone?—­Excuse me, you were saying”—­

They had both spoken at the same moment, and smiled forgivingly at each other.  Hurlstone gallantly insisted upon the precedence of her thought—­the scamp had doubted the coherency of his own.

“I used to think,” she began—­“you won’t be angry, will you?”

“Decidedly not.”

“I used to think you had an idea of becoming a priest.”

“Why?”

“Because—­you are sure you won’t be angry—­because I thought you hated women!”

“Father Esteban is a priest,” said Hurlstone, with a faint smile, “and you know he thinks kindly of your sex.”

“Yes; but perhaps his life was never spoiled by some wicked woman like—­like yours.”

For an instant he gazed intently into her eyes.

“Who told you that?”

“No one.”

She was evidently speaking the absolute truth.  There was no deceit or suppression in her clear gaze; if anything, only the faintest look of wonder at his astonishment.  And he—­this jealously guarded secret, the curse of his whole wretched life, had been guessed by this simple girl, without comment, without reserve, without horror!  And there had been no scene, no convulsion of Nature, no tragedy; he had not thrown himself into yonder sea; she had not fled from him shrinking, but was sitting there opposite to him in gentle smiling expectation, the golden light of Todos Santos around them, a bit of bright ribbon shining in her dark hair, and he, miserable, outcast, and recluse, had not even changed his position, but was looking up without tremulousness or excitement, and smiling, too.

He raised himself suddenly on his knee.

“And what if it were all true?” he demanded.

“I should be very sorry for you, and glad it were all over now,” she said softly.

A faint pink flush covered her cheek the next moment, as if she had suddenly become aware of another meaning in her speech, and she turned her head hastily towards the village.  To her relief she discerned that a number of Indian children had approached them from behind and had halted a few paces from the cross.  Their hands were full of flowers and shells as they stood hesitatingly watching the couple.

“They are some of the school-children,” said Hurlstone, in answer to her inquiring look; “but I can’t understand why they come here so openly.”

“Oh, don’t scold them!” said Eleanor, forgetting her previous orthodox protest; “let us go away, and pretend we don’t notice them.”

But as she was about to rise to her feet the hesitation of the little creatures ended in a sudden advance of the whole body, and before she comprehended what they were doing they had pressed the whole of their floral tributes in her lap.  The color rose again quickly to her laughing face as she looked at Hurlstone.

“Do you usually get up this pretty surprise for visitors?” she said hesitatingly.