paper and held it over the flame. It turned brown, crackled and burst
into a little blaze, and in a moment the black ashes fell fluttering to
the table.

"What do you suppose it was?" asked Dolores innocently, as Don John
brushed the ashes away.

"Dear--it is very ridiculous--I am ashamed of it, and I do not quite
know how to explain it to you." Again he blushed a little. "It seems
strange to speak of it--I never even told my mother. At first I used to
open them, but now I generally burn them like this one."

"Generally! Do you mean to say that you often find women's letters with
flowers in them on your table?"

"I find them everywhere," answered Don John, with perfect simplicity. "I
have found them in my gloves, tied into the basket hilt of my
sword--often they are brought to me like ordinary letters by a messenger
who waits for an answer. Once I found one on my pillow!"

"But"--Dolores hesitated--"but are they--are they all from the same
person?" she asked timidly. Don John laughed, and shook his head.

"She would need to be a very persistent and industrious person," he
answered. "Do you not understand?"

"No. Who are these women who persecute you with their writing? And why
do they write to you? Do they want you to help them?"

"Not exactly that;" he was still smiling. "I ought not to laugh, I