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would ever bring back his precious violin, now that the lottery ticket was no good. Surely so kind a man as the Señor would not keep a poor man’s property if he knew.
    Thus sorrowfully musing, Annuncio wandered to the edge of town and took up the long way back to Eulalia. But now the road seemed strangely long to his tired feet. He began to resort to frequent drinks from the bottle. After a time he sat down to rest by the roadside. Some vehicle was coming from the city. Maybe they were coming after him to say that there had been some mistake. Or perhaps it was the mail coche to San Luis. Then he recognized the mayor’s equipage. Ah yes, ’Nuncio remembered this was the evening of the grand baile at Madero’s, and doubtless the Señor Corregidor was overtaking him on his way thither. And would the Señor be so kind as to give him a lift, being very tired with the long walk? Of a certainty the Señor would. ’Nuncio might get up on the seat with the driver.
    Thankfully he did so, and the coche proceeded toward the Madero ranch, the hacienda next beyond his own humble adobe. Little by little ’Nuncio’s body relaxed, lulled by the easy rolling coche , and soon he forgot the troubles of the day, lost in a half-dream of near-forgotten melodies.
    But suddenly, in front of them, through the gathering dusk of the autumn evening, a glorious, scarlet burst of flame leaped quivering into the air. Annuncio started up.
    “Jesus Maria,” he said, dully, “our little plan!”

The Infernal Feminine
    Y OUNG S TAFFORD DEVOTED A FULL hour to the note, and even then was unable to satisfy himself. It was the ninth draft that he finally decided to send, and he folded it and sealed the envelope with the air of a philosopher who realizes how far short of the perfect are our most earnest endeavors. The note read as follows:
    Dear Miss Blair:
    I have been in New York two months; just long enough to form a decision that it is for the most part an exceedingly over-praised institution. Then, last night, a friend took me to see “Winning Winona,” and the moment you appeared on the stage that decision was reversed.
    I shall not apologize for the informality of this; if you are inclined to be offended it would be useless. I shall only say that I wish very much to have the pleasure of meeting you, and that, having studied you for two hours, I know you will at least be kind enough to accept my best and most tender regards and wishes.
Yours sincerely,
    Arnold Stafford.
    Now, despite this evidence to the contrary submitted in black and white, Arnold Stafford was a sensible youth. There comes a time in the life of every man when he feels an overwhelming impulse to send a note to a musical comedy soubrette; and it is no credit to him if he is too cowardly or too cautious to yield to it. And when the soubrette happens to be Betty Blair—well, have you ever seen her?
    As for the merit of the note itself, it must be admitted that it was a rather curious performance. It had a curtness and brevity that was almost legal—which perhaps was an effect intended deliberately. Anyway, it must be remembered that Stafford was wholly without experience in the matter.
    The important thing is, it produced results. It was the third morning after sending his note that Stafford found in his mail a gray, severe envelope. Tearing it open, he read as follows:
    Dear Mr. Stafford—You may meet me—if you will—at the stage door after the performance on Friday evening.
    Sincerely,
    Betty Blair.
    If Stafford had been a member of that gilded brotherhood which impedes the traffic of Broadway without any apparent purpose other than to prove that an animal with two legs is not necessarily a man, this seeming compliance on the part of Miss Blair would have filled him with suspicion. But as he was merely a promising young lawyer, with more or less of an excuse for existence, he was only pleased and a little surprised. As he attempted to convey to his tailor some idea of the