mind.
Her feminine fancy exalted the escaped duelist and alleged assassin into
a social martyr. His actual small political intrigues and ignoble aims
of office seemed to her little different from those aspirations of
royalty which she had read about--as perhaps they were. Indeed, it is to
be feared that in foolish little Mrs. Bunker, Wynyard Marion had found
the old feminine adoration of pretension and privilege which every
rascal has taken advantage of since the flood.

Howbeit, the next morning after she had returned and Zephas had sailed
away, she flew a red bandana handkerchief on the little flagstaff before
the house. A few hours later, a boat appeared mysteriously from around
the Point. Its only occupant--a common sailor--asked her name, and
handed her a sealed package. Mrs. Bunker's invention had already been
at work. She had created an aunt in Mexico, for whom she had, with some
ostentation, made some small purchases while in San Francisco. When her
husband spoke of going as far south as Todos Santos, she begged him to
deliver the parcel to her aunt's messenger, and even addressed it boldly
to her. Inside the outer wrapper she wrote a note to Marion, which, with
a new and amazing diffidence, she composed and altered a dozen times, at
last addressing the following in a large, school-girl hand: "Sir, I obey
your commands to the last. Whatever your oppressors or enemies may do,
you can always rely and trust upon She who in deepest sympathy signs
herself ever, Mollie Rosalie MacEwan." The substitution of her maiden
name in full seemed in her simplicity to be a delicate exclusion of
her husband from the affair, and a certain disguise of herself to alien
eyes. The superscription, "To Mrs. Marion MacEwan from Mollie Bunker, to
be called for by hand at Todos Santos," also struck her as a marvel of
ingenuity. The package was safely and punctually delivered by Zephas,
who brought back a small packet directed to her, which on private
examination proved to contain a letter addressed to "J. E. Kirby, to
be called for," with the hurried line: "A thousand thanks, W. M." Mrs.
Bunker drew a long, quick breath. He might have written more; he might
have--but the wish remained still unformulated. The next day she ran up
a signal; the same boat and solitary rower appeared around the Point,
and took the package. A week later, when her husband was ready for sea,
she again hoisted her signal. It brought a return package for Mexico,
wh