“A few days more, and I shall be leaving your hospitable roof,” continued Morning. “Why will you not take a me with you?” said Murella, with imperturbable gravity, and with no change of expression. The man illy concealed his look of surprise, as he tucked the richly embroidered pillow more firmly beneath his head, and replied kindly:— “Such a thing could not possibly be, little girl, for more reasons than your pretty head could contain.” “Then you do not a lof me, and you told a me a lie,” and the dark eyes lit with a flame of Vesuvian fires like the red light in those of a tiger. “What do you mean, señorita?” and a faint flush overspread his own pale face. “I mean you call me your beloved Ella, such name as Americans give a me, and you hold me close in your arms, and say you will never part from me, not for one hour—only ten day ago—and now you leave a me!” This was an awkward situation, and Mr. Morning recognized its full significance upon the moment. In his delirium he had used the too familiar name, and had coupled with its use endearments which had been compromisingly misappropriated. He reflected a moment. There was nothing left but to tell the truth and accept the consequences. Another girl would laugh. What would Murella do? “Señorita,” he began slowly, “I have, as you know, been very ill, and on several occasions have lost my way in delirium, and have been wandering over scenes belonging to other days. Can you not forgive me if I have called you by a name which you mistook for your own prettier one? Can you not pardon me if in my fevered imagination I gave you for the moment a place long ago sanctified and dedicated to forgetfulness?” “Then why cannot you lof a me? Am I not as lofely as she?” “You are very beautiful, Murella.” “Machacha!” shrieked the duenna from the entrance to the _ramada_, “what are you saying?” and then followed invective in every key, and words of scorn in every cadence, until, pale with anger and chagrin, the girl sprang from her hammock and ran swiftly away. For a long time our hero lay lost in speculation. After all, it was only a misunderstanding, and not liable to be remembered overnight. In any event, he had not compromised the maiden, and finally he concluded—as was indeed the truth—that the cunning señorita was all the while cognizant of the situation, and not at all deceived, and so he dismissed the subject from his mind. And what was the first move of the panic-stricken maiden? Speeding swiftly over the ground, she sank in the shadow of the ocotilla hedge inclosure, which formed the corral, and drew cautiously from her pocket the letter committed to her care by Morning. Reopening it, for the envelope, sealed only with mucilage, had been carefully broken, she drew forth a picture of the Baroness Von Eulaw, older by many years than the name she now bore, and much thumbed and worn beside.