self-aplomb by the slight assumption of superiority in the humorist.  A woman is quick to recognize the fact that the great and more dangerous passions are always serious, and may be excused if in self-respect she is often induced to try if there be not somewhere under the skin of this laughing Mercutio the flesh and blood of a Romeo.  Thatcher was by nature a defender and protector; weakness, and weakness alone, stirred the depths of his tenderness,—­often, I fear, only through its half-humorous aspects,—­and on this plane he was pleased to place women and children.  I mention this fact for the benefit of the more youthful members of my species, and am satisfied that an unconditional surrender and the complete laying down at the feet of Beauty of all strong masculinity is a cheap Gallicism that is untranslatable to most women worthy the winning.  For a woman must always look up to the man she truly loves,—­even if she has to go down on her knees to do it.

Only the masculine reader will infer from this that Carmen was in love with Thatcher; the more critical and analytical feminine eye will see nothing herein that might not have happened consistently with friendship.  For Thatcher was no sentimentalist; he had hardly paid a compliment to the girl,—­even in the unspoken but most delicate form of attention.  There were days when his room door was closed; there were days succeeding these blanks when he met her as frankly and naturally as if he had seen her yesterday.  Indeed, on those days following his flight the simple-minded Carmen, being aware—­heaven knows how—­that he had not opened his door during that period, and fearing sickness, sudden death, or perhaps suicide, by her appeals to the landlady, assisted unwittingly in discovering his flight and defection.  As she was for a few moments as indignant as Mrs. Plodgitt, it is evident that she had but little sympathy with the delinquent.  And besides, hitherto she had known only Concho, her earliest friend, and was true to his memory, as against all Americanos, whom she firmly believed to be his murderers.

So she dismissed the offer and the man from her mind, and went back to her painting,—­a fancy portrait of the good Padre Junipero Serra, a great missionary, who, haply for the integrity of his bones and character, died some hundred years before the Americans took possession of California.  The picture was fair but unsaleable, and she began to think seriously of sign painting, which was then much more popular and marketable.  An unfinished head of San Juan de Bautista, artificially framed in clouds, she disposed of to a prominent druggist for $50, where it did good service as exhibiting the effect of four bottles of “Jones’s Freckle Eradicator,” and in a pleasant and unobtrusive way revived the memory of the saint.  Still, she felt weary and was growing despondent, and had a longing for the good Sisters and the blameless lethargy of conventual life, and then—­