But O’Reilly’s letters did not always touch upon practical things; there was a wide streak of romance in him, and much of what he wrote was the sort of thing which romantic lovers always write—­ tender, foolish, worshipful thoughts which half abashed him when he read them over.  But that Rosa would thrill to them he had no doubt, nor had he any fear that she would hesitate to leave her native land for him.  O’Reilly’s love was unlimited; his trust in the girl was absolute.  He knew, moreover, that she loved and trusted him.  This, to be sure, was a miracle—­a unique phenomenon which never ceased to amaze him.  He did not dream that every man had felt the same vague wonder.

And so the time passed rapidly.  But, strange to say, there came no answer to those letters.  O’Reilly chafed:  he cursed the revolution which had made communication so uncertain; at length he cabled, but still the days dragged on with no result.  Gradually his impatience gave way to apprehension.  Unreasonable conjectures besieged his mind and destroyed his peace.

Great was his relief, therefore, when one day a worn, stained envelope addressed in Rosa’s hand was laid upon his desk.  The American stamp, the Key West postmark, looked strange, but—­Her first letter!  O’Reilly wondered if his first letter to her could possibly have moved her as this moved him.  He kissed the envelope where her lips had caressed it in the sealing.  Then with eager fingers he broke it open.

It was a generous epistle, long and closely written, but as he read his keen delight turned to dismay, and when he had turned the last thin page his brain was in wildest turmoil.  He thought he must be dreaming.  He turned sick, aching eyes upon his surroundings to prove this thing a nightmare, but the prosaic clink of a typewriter and the drone of a voice dictating quotations on Brazilian coffee were conclusive evidence to the contrary.  Those pages between his thumb and finger were real.  Yes, and that was Rosa’s writing.  Could it be that he had misunderstood anything?  He turned to the beginning and attempted to read, but his hands shook so that he was obliged to lay the letter flat upon his desk.

Rosa’s Spanish training had been severely tried.  The stiff, quaint formality of her opening paragraphs only served to emphasize her final frightened cry for help.

My dearly beloved,—­It is with diffidence and hesitation that I take my pen in hand, for I fear you may consider me unduly forward in writing to you without solicitation.  Believe me, I appreciate the reserve which a young lady of refinement should practise even in her correspondence with the gentleman who has honored her with his promise of marriage, but my circumstances are such as to banish consideration of the social niceties.