"Nonsense; I know all about it. I'm not a sentimental person and I don't mind telling you in plain English I _like_ you. I must like you rather more than usual, or I wouldn't see so much of you." By this time we are away from the rest of the passengers, down by the smokestack. "I feel as if I'd known you _for years_!" I end with a sense of having turned the tide of sentiment by a little frank speaking, and feel rather proud of myself. "Senorita," he clasps his hand over mine and speaks hurriedly, "I know you loaf me; tell me so." Oddly enough, I feel no indignation, but I open my lips for a denial. "If you tell me not," he says excitedly, laying one hand on the rail and looking greatly wrought-up, tragic and comical all at once, "if you tell me not," he repeats, raising his voice, "I yump in dthe vater." I tighten my hold on his arm, trying not to let him see how much I want to laugh. "Of course, one loves one's friends; don't be silly." A quick light leaps into the dark eyes. I am reproached and vaguely uneasy at the sight of his gladness. "I'm going back to Mrs. Steele; she doesn't like me to leave her so long." I turn away and like a flash he is at my side. He draws my hand through his arm, holding it against his heart. I can feel the great leaps under the yachtman's gay jacket. "Ah!" sighs the wearer, "I feel suffocate on dthis boat--it ees so small, people eferywhere and you and I so leedle alone. Ah, ve vill soon be at San Jose!" "I don't see how that will mend matters." I am anxious to see what he has in mind. "Madame Steele vant to go to Guatemala." "Yes, but so do most of the other passengers." "From San Jose to Guatemala ees seventy mile, and dthe Paris of Central America ees zomething more large dthan dthis _San Miguel_. Much can happen before ve come back." We join Mrs. Steele and talk over our plan. The next day we arrive at Champerico, but no one goes ashore; we stay so short a time. The deck party breaks up early that night, everyone anxious to be ready for the six o'clock breakfast call next morning. "To-morrow ve air at San Jose de Guatemala, and much can happen before ve see _San Miguel_ again." The Baron takes my hand at the saloon door as I say good-night. "That's the second time you've made that ominous remark, Baron de Bach. What do you mean?" "Baron de Bach!" he echoes. "My name ees 'Guillermo,' Blanca." Somehow it doesn't seem so familiar or significant as if he said "Blanche." "What do you think will happen to us in Guatemala, Guillermo?" "Blanca vill see;" he lifts the hand with the rosary falling about it to his lips and kisses the crucifix. "Good-night, Guillermo." "Good-night, Blanca."