restrain it; think of your friends, if not of yourself," adjures Juanita, gravely.
"Ah, well, they would be the only mourners if I stopped a Spanish bullet. I haven't a relative in the world except an amiable aunt in the western states, who threatens to some day turn over to me the squandering of her small fortune."
"No relative except an aunt?" repeats Juanita, sympathetically. "No one to weep for you?"
"Oh, the boys in the office would wear crepe for a week, and"
"Don't talk so lightly on such a dreadful subject," reproves Juanita. "I am sure I should feel a great deal more distress than 'the boys in the office,' and I have known you only a fortnight."
"Thank you, senorita. You may feel sure that I shall studiously avoid being borne off a Cuban battleground upon my shield."
"You will keep on through to Havana?"
"Unless circumstances bar my way, I shall follow along the line of the railroad, stopping wherever night overtakes me, and resuming my journey whenever I feel like it. I have no definite plans. And, now, senorita, I believe I will say Adios. It is getting along toward 9 o'clock, and the proprietary genius of my hotel looks upon belated guests somewhat askance. I have made my adieus to Don Manuel and Don Carlos, and it only remains to express my regret at saying farewell to you, senorita."
Juanita watches him while he untethers his horse, and as he turns, bridle in hand, to lift his hat, she comes from the veranda and puts her hand in his.
"You will surely return?" she asks.
"As surely as a bad penny."
"Then I will not say farewell."
"Au revoir it is, then," says Jack. He lifts the little hand to his lips, and then with rather unnecessary abruptness he mounts his horse and rides away in the moonlight.
"Hang it!" he mutters, when out of sight of the quinta; "that makes at least half a dozen times that I have pulled
