"But I don't know you," Laverne said, rather hesitatingly.
"Then the disguise must be very good. I am an old—shall I say, old friend? We were not very warm friends when I knew you."
Was it a school friend playing a prank?
"I am so tired." She dropped down on a stone. "I wanted to see you first—I am a little afraid of Miss Holmes." Then she pulled off the headgear, afterward the gray wig.
Laverne stood astounded. "It isn't, it surely isn't Carmen Estenega!"
"Why—yes; you know you saw me last at the Convent."
"And you were going to be married."
"Oh, what a blind idiot I was! But it was considered a great thing, and I didn't know how any one might love then. I know now. I have run away. I would kill myself sooner than marry Pascuel Estenega."
Laverne drew a long breath. Yes, this really was Carmen. The eyes, the mouth, when she talked, but there was a fire in the face that had not been there in childhood, and a spirit that half frightened Laverne.
"I want to see your uncle. I have a note to him, from—from a person he has confidence in. And I want to tell him my story. I think men take a different view, of some things, at least I believe he will, and another person thinks so."