t dinner, refreshed with my long rest, I feel unusually light-hearted and gay. I laugh and chat with SeÑor Noma and the rough old Captain, till Mrs. Steele leans over and gives me a look of surprise. Not once do the eyes of the Peruvian turn in my direction, and he leaves the table before dessert. He is not visible on deck when we go up later and, after talking a while to the others, I start off on a tour of discovery.

Down at the further end of the steamer, to windward of the smokestack, stands the Baron in a depressed attitude smoking a pipe and looking out to sea.

"Oh, you're here!" I call out in friendly fashion. "I've been looking for you. I'm sorry if I was rude about the reading"—I look as meek and penitent as I know how.

The Baron takes out his pipe and walks to the vessel's side, where he knocks out the ashes.

"Well!" I insist, "I've said I'm sorry, and in English the proper reply to that is 'I forgive you.'"

A curious, lingering look out of those dark eyes of his.

"I forgif you," he says, as a child repeats a lesson.

"And we must be friends again, nicht wahr?" I hold out my hand.

"No, SeÑorita." He takes the hand, but shakes his head.

"No!" I echo; "why not?"

"Because I haf nefer been your friend. I haf always loaf you, I haf forget vhat it vas like not to loaf you. It ees true you vere scarce polite about dthe reading. I did not know I bore you. I feel it fery deep. It might not matter to zome Nordthern zhentlemen, but I am dthe most sensible man you ever know."

"Sensible!" I say, in a tone scarcely flattering, trying to keep my lips from twitching.

"Yes, I am terrible sensible; a fery leedle dthing vill hurt me."

"Well, well, I'll be your friend, anyhow, and I'll try to be very considerate. I'll show you what a good friend a North American can be."

"My gude friend haf make my head zo ache I dthink it vill burst."

He pushes back his cap, and carries my hand to his forehead; it is very hot and the temples throb under my fingers.

"Poor fellow!" I say, hoping with might and main that no one sees. "Shall I send you some eau de Cologne?"

"No! no! If you vould gif me your hand again."

"No," I say, "not here. Anyone who saw us would misunderstand. Come to Mrs. Steele; she'll give you something."

"No!" says the Peruvian. "I vill stay here; you stay, too. Ah, SeÑorita, how can you be so indifferent to my loaf?"

"I can't stay here if you talk nonsense."

"Mein Gott! Vhat more sense can a man haf dthan to loaf you?"

"Oh, see the porpoises!" I say abruptly. The great clumsy fish are floundering about us in schools.

"Vhat heafen eyes you haf, SeÑorita!"

"I do believe that's 'San JosÉ Joe.'" I run to the rail. "You know! the huge old shark all covered with barnacles the seamen tell about."

"You vill nefer listen," says the Peruvian, plunging his hands far down in his yachtsman's jacket. "I dthink, SeÑorita, ven you die, and St. Peter meet you at dthe gate and say, 'You haf lif gude life, come into Heaven'—you vill fery like look over your shoulder and say, 'Oh, Peter! vhere go all dthose nice leedle devils?'"

The Peruvian's last shot certainly diverts me from all finny creatures, and we sit down on a pile of lumber, and the Baron shows me his rings and seals—tells me where each came from and the story attached. He finally pulls out of his pocket a rosary. "I haf carry dthis efer since I was in Egypt."

This simple little string of olive stones and carved ebony beads quite captivates my fancy, and the penalty for the expression of my liking is that I must try it on. He winds it about my wrist and, having forced open one of the silver links, he bends down and with those sharp, white teeth bites the open link close again—the blond moustache sweeps my wrist and the rosary is securely fastened.

"Now," I say, "see what you've done! How will you get it off?"

"It comes not off till you are zomething less dthan my friend or zomething more."

"Oh, but I can't take your rosary; that's absurd!"

"You cannot take a few leedle pieces of vood from your friend? Vhy, dthose leedle voods are only dthe—dthe—dthe—how you say?—bones off dthe olive."

I laugh till I ache. "Bones of the olive!" I almost roll off the lumber in a spasm of merriment. Mrs. Steele, who wonders at my long absence, comes with SeÑor Noma to find me, and soon there are three laughing at the poor Baron's expense.

"Hush, Blanche, it's really too bad—you must pardon her, Baron," says Mrs. Steele.

"I mind it not more," says the Peruvian, with new philosophy. "SeÑorita vould laugh in dthe face of St. Peter."

When the gong sounds for service on the morning of the second Sunday out, the Baron grumbles feelingly at the interruption. He is sketching Mrs. Steele and me and says he "hates playing on a zo bad violin"—but a promise is a promise, and we all go down "to church" in the close dining-room. The Captain reads the beautiful Morning Prayers and Litanies like a schoolboy, but the music is really admirable. Pretty Miss Rogers appears to striking advantage. Dressed simply in white, she plays the accompaniments and leads the singing in a sweet, true voice. Mrs. Steele and I sit in the background, and I'm afraid I think but little of the service. Now what perversity is in the mind of man, I meditate, that blinds him to such real beauty and accomplishment as Miss Rogers is blessed with? Of course, I'm not such a fool as not to see that with all my sadly palpable defects of face and temper, the big Peruvian finds me somehow interesting and "Miss Rogair a nice girl, but, like a dthousand odthers I haf know, a leedle stupeed." Ah, the "stupidity" is on the other side, I'm afraid! Miss Rogers is too inexperienced, my thoughts run on, to disguise her liking for the Baron, and instead of being pleased or flattered as he should be, he will leave her at a look from me, only to get laughed at for his pains. A strange world! I say to myself. "As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be!" sings the choir, and Miss Rogers' clear voice lingers in the "Amen."

As I walk the deck with the Baron that evening he tells me about his lovely sister, "Alvida," and about Peruvian customs.

"My sister ees dthe most beautiful voman in Peru; she haf many suitors, but she ees nefer allow to see dthem except when dthe family air vidth her. It ees not like your country; a man can nefer know dthe voman he loaf till he marry her."

"Very stupid custom," I say. "I wouldn't give a fig for such love. You could only care for the face or the fortune of a woman so hemmed about. What could you know of the character, of the real individual, that after all is the only safe thing to pin one's faith to."

"I like your customs better in zome dthings, but it makes you vomans too clevair; you know men better dthan ve know you."

"You have the same opportunities. It's not our fault if you don't profit by them."

"You tell me yourself," he goes on, unheeding, "you haf many gude friends among your fadther's and brodthers' acquaintances; dthat make you care so leedle for men."

"Not a bit of it!" I laugh. "On the contrary, it has so accustomed me to their friendship I would find life utterly unendurable without it."

"I vill make you fery angry pairhaps, but I have deescovair you like me leedle more dthan a friend."

"I suppose it is often flattering to a man's vanity to have a fancy like that," I say coolly, but I am conscious of a twinge; what if I do like him more than I want to think?

"It ees not fancy, SeÑorita; you do not know yourself you care, but you do."

"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.

"SeÑorita," 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 JosÉ!"

"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 JosÉ 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 JosÉ 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."

By half-past seven the next morning all who purpose going ashore are standing on the lower deck of the San Miguel, wondering how they are to get from the steamer to the clumsy "lighter" or freight boat that the great breakers are tossing about below, and which is reported to be our sole means of making the shore.

"The passengers are hauled up and down in a big barrel," says the Captain, who has come from the bridge to receive some official from the settlement. "You're not going ashore, Mrs. Steele!" He fixes a look of astonishment on my friend in her travelling dress.

"Of course I am."

"Why, there's nothing to see but huts and sand-piles."

"Ve go to Guatemala," says the Baron, giving our wraps to the Chinese porter.

"You do nothing of the kind." The brusque Captain is nothing if not unceremonious. "We'll have this Hamburg cargo loaded in a day, and you can't go and get back in time; and I won't wait—I won't wait a second for anyone mad enough to go to Guatemala! You'll have to give it up," he says to Mrs. Steele.

There is a chorus of disappointment from the assembled crowd, but Mrs. Steele, with evident reluctance, says:

"Of course, it would never do to be left behind; there's yellow fever in all these ports, I'm told."

"Place is full of it—stay on the ship like sensible people. There's nothing worth seeing in Guatemala. I hate to be bothered with passengers going off—" and the Captain walks to the railing to wave his hand with stiff pomposity to a Mexican who sits in the lighter.

"You air meestake, Captain," says the Baron de Bach; "all dthose vorkmen say it vill be two days loading dthis cafÉ."

The Captain, never very good-tempered at the best of times, is especially peppery to-day.

"Are you runnin' this ship, young man, or am I?" He seems to think he has made a forcible and irrefutable rejoinder and turns away like one who has settled something forever.

"I vill spik vidth you inside." The Baron sets down his small valise and follows the apparently unheeding Captain into the saloon. We stand undecided, looking down at the lighter shifting about in the breakers, and watching a stout Mexican get into a huge barrel that has one side cut down and a seat fitted in—a rope with huge iron hook attached is lowered from a pulley on the steamer, and the barrel full of San JosÉ official is lifted into the air. The barrel twirls about, the official puts his hand to his eyes, and in a moment he is landed like a mammoth fish on the deck of the San Miguel.

We hear the voices in the saloon rising with anger. Mrs. Steele looks apprehensive and makes a step towards the door. Out strides the Baron, looking hot and excited.

"Ladies, ve vill go. I promise you ve vill be back in time."

Already the crowd is lessened and some have given up going even to San JosÉ, and several have made the trip in the barrel and are safely landed in the lighter.

"I think we won't run any risk," says Mrs. Steele gently, "though we can go to San JosÉ, of course."

"Madame, I do assure you," and the Baron is most emphatic, "if you vill trust to go vidth me I see dthat you come safe back before San Miguel sails."

The second mate comes up with an amused look.

"You ladies jest go 'long; th' Cap'n's alwus like that; nobuddy minds. We can't get away under two days, and he knows it. We ain't 'lowed to leave under forty-eight hours on 'count o' passengers from the coast."

That settles it, and each in turn we go spinning down in the barrel and sit on piles of freight in the unsteady lighter. The Mexican oarsmen stand up and propel the boat through the surf with long oars. It is rougher than it looks, and I suffer my first touch of sea-sickness. We understand why we are anchored so far away, and why the huge iron pier running out from San JosÉ extends such a distance seawards. I am quite faint and miserable when we reach the landing. The Baron is still so consumed with rage at the Captain's "interference," he has no eyes, happily, for my pitiable condition. I look about disconsolately for the barrel elevator, for the pier is far above our heads, and the great waves are dashing us against its iron side. To Mrs. Steele's horror, we perceive a sort of iron cage is employed in the process of elevation at this end of the journey, and soon we three are swinging in mid-air between the angry waves and the iron pier.

"Oh!" I say, breathlessly, clutching at Mrs. Steele, "what would Uncle John say if he could see me now?"

"He would probably advise you to follow his example and make your observations from the outside of the cage."

I've observed that Mrs. Steele is sometimes lacking in sympathy at trying moments.

At last we are landed, and at the end of the long pier we find a narrow-gauge train—strange, primitive little cars and very dirty withal. We make ourselves as comfortable as possible—opening the windows and each one occupying a double seat, for the carriage is only half full.

"It's not more than seventy miles, I believe," says Mrs. Steele, "but it takes five hours to get there; it's an up-hill grade all the way."

"Five hours!" I repeat, dismayed. "Oh, why did no one tell me that before? I had scarcely a mouthful of breakfast."

"We haf another breakfast at Escuintla, mees, a gude one," says SeÑor Noma, passing through our coach to the smoking-car. I am consoled and full of interest at the prospect, as the dingy little train moves off. Mrs. Steele and I are facing each other, while the Baron sits behind me and points out the most noteworthy features of this notable expedition. We are in the tropics truly; the heat is overpowering, and the Baron leans over the back of my seat with my rough Mazatlan fan, and uses it with a generous devotion that tires him and does not cool me.

"Do fan yourself a little," I say. "You've been the colour of a lobster ever since your interview with the Captain."

The Peruvian's brows contract—he looks ferocious in the extreme—and I am a little sorry I mentioned the Captain.

"Dthat Capitan ees von fool! He know not how to treat a zhentleman. I tell him I make a procÈs to dthe company and get him reprimand for how he spik to me."

"Why, what did he say?" asks Mrs. Steele.

"He tell me I act like I vas Capitan, dthen he call me 'damn.' I tell him he vas a coachman!"

The Baron looks surprised and a bit resentful at our laughter.

"What made you call him a coachman?" Mrs. Steele is the first, as usual, to pull a straight face.

"Madame forget I know not all Eenglish vords. I could dthink of nodthing more vorse—I vas zo crazy vidth madness."