on one side like an attentive bird, and her arms unconsciously imitating
the signs. Certainly, for all that she SPOKE like an American, her
gesticulation was Italian.
"And then," she said triumphantly when he paused, "when the sailors see
that sign up they know they are coming in the harbor."
Jarman smiled, as he had not smiled since he had been there. He
corrected this mistake of her eager haste to show her intelligence, and,
taking the telescope, pointed out the other semaphore,--a thin black
outline on a distant inland hill. He then explained how HIS signs were
repeated by that instrument to San Francisco.
"My! Why, I always allowed that was only the cross stuck up in the Lone
Mountain Cemetery," she said.
"You are a Catholic?"
"I reckon."
"And you are an Italian?"
"Father is, but mother was a 'Merikan, same as me. Mother's dead."
"And your father is the fisherman yonder?"
"Yes,--but," with a look of pride, "he's got the biggest boat of any."
"And only you and your family are ashore here?"
"Yes, and sometimes Mark." She laughed an odd little laugh.
"Mark? Who's he?" he asked quickly.
He had not noticed the sudden coquettish pose and half-affected
bashfulness of the girl; he was thinking only of the possibility of
detection by strangers.
"Oh, he is Marco Franti, but I call him 'Mark.' It's the same name, you
know, and it makes him mad," said the girl, with the same suggestion of
archness and coquetry.
But all this was lost on Jarman.
"Oh, another Italian," he said, relieved. She turned away a little
awkwardly when he added, "But you haven't told me YOUR name, you know."
"Cara."
"Cara,--that's 'dear' in Italian, isn't it?" he said, with a
reminiscence of the opera and a half smile.
"Yes," she said a little scornfully, "but it means Carlotta,--Charlotte,
you know. Some girls call me Charley," she said hurriedly.
"I see--Cara--or Carlotta Franti."
To his surprise she burst into a peal of laughter.
"I reckon not YET. Franti is Mark's name, not mine. Mine is
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