"Now to bed--and to work again with the dawn. While I am writing to you I forget everything about me. Natives may chatter near me; I don't hear them. My friend Hackett may come and fire a string of questions at me; he tells me afterward my answers wouldn't do credit to a monkey on a stick. I am lost in the attempt to put your face before me--your face as I saw it last. There was not much light in the car, but what there was fell on your face. I see rose colour always; what was it--the bonnet?--if they call those things bonnets! I see more rose colour--reflection? I see a pair of eyes which were not afraid to look into mine--for a minute; only for a minute--but I can see them. "The night grows cold. Even in the tropics the nights may be cold in the mountains. My fire has burned down to a few coals. My bunk awaits me; I thought I was tired when I sat down to write. I'm not tired now--refreshed! "Good-night! Sleep well--up there somewhere in the North!" After this letter Dorothy Broughton went about like a girl in a dream. Yet she was so practical a girl, had been so thoroughly trained to fill her days with things worth while, that she was able to keep up a very realistic appearance of being absorbed in the old round of duties and pleasures. She was leading a life by no means idle or useless. As for the happiness of it, she carried about with her a constant sense that something wonderful had happened, was happening--and was yet to happen--which made no task too hard for her newly vitalized spirit. The day before Thanksgiving the arrival of a particularly thick letter from Colombia gave her a more than ordinarily delightful sense of anticipation. Her brother Julius, at home for the annual festival, saw it upon the hall table three seconds before she did, and captured it. He withdrew from his breast pocket another letter in a similar handwriting addressed to himself. With an expression of great gravity he compared the two while Dorothy held out her hand in vain. "Don't be in a hurry," he advised her. "There is a curious likeness between these two addresses--not to mention the envelopes--which interests but baffles me. The word 'Broughton' in both cases begins with an almost precisely identical B. The small t is crossed in almost exactly the same manner--with a black bar of ink which indicates a lavish disposition. The whole address upon your letter seems to me to bear a close and remarkable resemblance to the address upon mine. Another point which should not be overlooked: both are postmarked with a South American stamp, a Colombian stamp, with--yes--with the same stamp. What can this mean? I--" "When you are through with your nonsense--" Dorothy still extended her hand for her letter.