"I saw you from the barn up there," she jerked her hand backward to a barn on the summit, "and I just made a dash down to catch you." She landed against the fence with a violent jolt. "This morning a man who'd come up from below told me the _Despatch_ was going to be published with advertisements in it." "It is," he said. "By tomorrow probably." "Are you going down there again?" She swept the city with a grimed, brown hand. "I'm going down sometime, not right now." "Any time'll do--only the sooner the better. I've got an advertisement to put in. Will you take it?" He nodded. He would be able to do it tomorrow. She smiled, and with the flash of her teeth and something of gamin roguishness in her expression, the feeling that he had seen her before--knew her--grew stronger. He eyed her, puzzled, and seeing the look, she grinned in gay amusement. "I guess you know _me_, a good many people do. But my make-up's new--dirt. Water's too valuable to use for washing." He was not quite sure yet, and his expression showed it. That made her laugh, a mischievous note. "Ain't you ever been to the Albion, young man?" "Oh!" he breathed. "Why, of course--Pancha Lopez!" "Come on then," she cried; "now we're introduced. Come up while I write the ad." She drew away from the fence while he wheeled his bicycle in through a break in the pickets. As she moved along the path in front of him, she called back: "We're up here in the barn, our castle on the hill. It mayn't look much from the outside, but it's roomy and the view's fine. Better than being crowded into the houses with the people sleeping on the floors. They'd have taken us in, any of 'em, but we chose the barn--quieter and more air. My pa's with me." She turned and threw a challenging glance at him. "You didn't know I had a pa? Well, I have and a good one." Then she raised her voice and called: "Pa, hello! I've corralled a man who'll take that ad." From the open door of the barn a man of burly figure appeared. He nodded to Mark, bluffly friendly. "That's good. We didn't know how we was to get in from this far, and we bin lookin' out for someone." Then turning to the girl, "You get busy? honey, and write it. We don't want to waste this young feller's time." They entered the barn, a wide, shadowy place, cool and quiet, with hay piled in the back. Depressions in it showed where they had been sleeping, a horse blanket folded neatly beside each nest. To the left an open door led into what seemed a room for tools and farm supplies. Mark could see one corner where below a line of pegs gunny sacks, stacked and bulging, leaned against the wall. "Now if you'll further oblige me with a pencil and paper," said the girl, "I'll tackle it, though writing's not my strong suit." He pulled out a letter--offering a clean back--and a fountain pen. The girl took them, then stood in dubious irresolution, looking at them with uneasy eyes.