“It is an eavesdropper,” said Juanita, impetuously; “and who and why, I intend to know,” and she started towards the thicket.

“Do not leave me, good Juanita,” said the young acolyte, grasping the girl’s skirt.

“Nay; run to the hacienda quickly, and leave me to search the thicket.  Run!”

The boy did not wait for a second injunction, but scuttled away, his long coat catching in the brambles, while Juanita darted like a kitten into the bushes.  Her search was fruitless, however, and she was returning impatiently when her quick eye fell upon a letter lying amidst the dried grass where she and Francisco had been seated the moment before.  It had evidently fallen from his breast when he had risen suddenly, and been overlooked in his alarm.  It was Father Pedro’s letter to the Father Superior of San Jose.

In an instant she had pounced upon it as viciously as if it had been the interloper she was seeking.  She knew that she held in her fingers the secret of Francisco’s sudden banishment.  She felt instinctively that this yellowish envelope, with its red string and its blotch of red seal, was his sentence and her own.  The little mestiza had not been brought up to respect the integrity of either locks or seals, both being unknown in the patriarchal life of the hacienda.  Yet with a certain feminine instinct she looked furtively around her, and even managed to dislodge the clumsy wax without marring the pretty effigy of the crossed keys impressed upon it.  Then she opened the letter and read.

Suddenly she stopped and put back her hair from her brown temples.  Then a succession of burning blushes followed each other in waves from her neck up, and died in drops of moisture in her eyes.  This continued until she was fairly crying, dropping the letter from her hands and rocking to and fro.  In the midst of this she quickly stopped again; the clouds broke, a sunshine of laughter started from her eyes, she laughed shyly, she laughed loudly, she laughed hysterically.  Then she stopped again as suddenly, knitted her brows, swooped down once more upon the letter, and turned to fly.  But at the same moment the letter was quietly but firmly taken from her hand, and Mr. Jack Cranch stood beside her.

Juanita was crimson, but unconquered.  She mechanically held out her hand for the letter; the American took her little fingers, kissed them, and said:—­

“How are you again?”

“The letter,” replied Juanita, with a strong disposition to stamp her foot.

“But,” said Cranch, with business directness, “you’ve read enough to know it isn’t for you.”

“Nor for you either,” responded Juanita.

“True.  It is for the Reverend Father Superior of San Jose Mission.  I’ll give it to him.”

Juanita was becoming alarmed, first at this prospect, second at the power the stranger seemed to be gaining over her.  She recalled Francisco’s description of him with something like superstitious awe.