little material body; and made divers excursions into the regions of ceramic art, painting on velvet, illuminating missals, decorating china, and the like.  I have in my possession some wax flowers—­a startling fuchsia and a bewildering dahlia—­sold for a mere pittance by this little lady, whose pictures lately took the prize at a foreign exhibition, shortly after she had been half starved by a California public, and claimed by a California press as its fostered child of genius.

Of these struggles and triumphs Thatcher had no knowledge; yet he was perhaps more startled than he would own to himself when, one December day, he received this despatch:  “Come to Washington at once.—­Carmen de Haro.”

“Carmen de Haro!” I grieve to state that such was the preoccupation of this man, elected by fate to be the hero of the solitary amatory episode of his story, that for a moment he could not recall her.  When the honest little figure that had so manfully stood up against him, and had proved her sex by afterwards running away from him, came back at last to his memory, he was at first mystified and then self-reproachful.  He had been, he felt vaguely, untrue to himself.  He had been remiss to the self-confessed daughter of his enemy.  Yet why should she telegraph to him, and what was she doing in Washington?  To all these speculations it is to be said to his credit that he looked for no sentimental or romantic answer.  Royal Thatcher was naturally modest and self-depreciating in his relations to the other sex, as indeed most men who are apt to be successful with women generally are, despite a vast degree of superannuated bosh to the contrary.  To the half dozen women who are startled by sheer audacity into submission there are scores who are piqued by a self-respectful patience; and where a women has to do half the wooing, she generally makes a pretty sure thing of it.

In his bewilderment Thatcher had overlooked a letter lying on his table.  It was from his Washington lawyer.  The concluding paragraph caught his eye,—­“Perhaps it would be well if you came here yourself.  Roscommon is here; and they say there is a niece of Garcia’s, lately appeared, who is likely to get up a strong social sympathy for the old Mexican.  I don’t know that they expect to prove anything by her; but I’m told she is attractive and clever, and has enlisted the sympathies of the delegation.”  Thatcher laid the letter down a little indignantly.  Strong men are quite as liable as weak women are to sudden inconsistencies on any question they may have in common.  What right had this poor little bud he had cherished,—­he was quite satisfied now that he had cherished her, and really had suffered from her absence,—­what right had she to suddenly blossom in the sunshine of power to be, perhaps, plucked and worn by one of his enemies?  He did not agree with his lawyer that she was in any way connected with his enemies:  he trusted to her masculine loyalty that far.  But here was something