He came to himself and laughed again as he thought of Carmencita, the first girl he had ever known--and the last. With a boy's impetuosity he had wooed her in a manner far different from that of the peons who sang beneath her window and talked to her mother. He had boldly scaled the wall and did his courting in her house, trusting to luck and to his own ability to avoid being seen. No hidden meaning lay in his words; he spoke from his heart and with no concealment. And he remembered the treachery that had forced him, fighting, to the camp of his outfit; and when he had returned with his friends she had disappeared. To this day he hated that mud-walled convent and those sisters who so easily forgot how to talk. The fragrance of the old days wrapped themselves around him, and although he had ceased to pine for his black-eyed Carmencita-well, it would be nice if he chanced to see her again. Spurring his mount into an easy canter he swept down to and across the river, fording it where he had crossed it when pursuing Tamale Jose. The town lay indolent under the Mexican night, and the strumming of guitars and the tinkle of spurs and tiny bells softly echoed from several houses. The convent of St. Maria lay indistinct in its heavy shadows and the little church farther up the dusty street showed dim lights in its stained windows. Off to the north became audible the rhythmic beat of a horse and soon a cowboy swept past the convent with a mocking bow. He clattered across the stone-paved plaza and threw his mount back on its haunches as he stopped before a house. Glancing around and determining to find out a few facts as soon as possible, he rode up to the low door and pounded upon it with the butt of his Colt. After waiting for possibly half a minute and receiving no response he hammered a tune upon it with two Colts and had the satisfaction of seeing half a score of heads protrude from the windows in the nearby houses. “If I could scare up another gun I might get th' whole blamed town up,” he grumbled whimsically, and fell on the door with another tune. “Who is it?” came from within. The voice was distinctly feminine and Hopalong winked to himself in congratulation. “Me,” he replied, twirling his fingers from his nose at the curious, forgetting that the darkness hid his actions from sight. “Yes, I know; but who is 'me'?” Came from the house. “Ain't I a fool!” he complained to himself, and raising his voice he replied coaxingly, “Open th' door a bit an' see. Are yu Carmencita?” “O-o-o! but you must tell me who it is first.” “Mr. Cassidy,” he replied, flushing at the 'mister,' “an' I wants to see Carmencita.”