icitude.

"Yes; I have passed a miserable night."

"Why? How?"

"Philip's indifference has wounded me to the heart!"

"Do not grieve about that, my dearest. What you think indifference, is
perhaps, an excess of tenderness. Philip regrets that you did not remain
in England. The terrible position in which you are placed grieves and,
at the same time, irritates him."

She thus endeavored to quiet Antoinette's suspicions, but the latter
could no longer be deceived. She heard her to the end; then she asked.

"Are you sure that these are really Philip's sentiments? Is it not more
probable that there is another love in his heart?"

"Another love!" repeated Dolores, frightened by these words; "do not
believe it. Philip is your betrothed husband; he knows it. He is as
conscious of his present as of his future duties; and he loves you
only."

"You are wrong, Dolores. It is you he loves!"

"Loves me! Who has told you this?"

"So it is true! Ah! I was sure of it," murmured Antoinette. "He has met
you again after a separation of four years, and I am forgotten."

Dolores rose, took her friend in her arms as if she were a child, and
said gently:

"Be comforted, I entreat you. Your imagination deceives you and leads
you far from the truth. It is possible that Philip, on meeting me again,
was moved by some of the emotions that are often awakened in the heart
by memories of the past; but these emotions are fleeting and do not
endanger your happiness. If Philip once cherished fancies that troubled
your peace, you know that my departure sufficed to cure him of them; and
should these foolish fancies revive, my departure will again suffice to
dispel them and to restore to you the heart to which you, and you alone,
have an inalienable claim."

These words reassured Antoinette. She ceased to weep, and her whole
heart seemed to go out in gratitude to Dolores. The latter continued:

"If God wills that we recover our freedom, you shall depart with Philip.
As for me, I shall take refuge in some convent in a foreign land. My
place is there, and I solemnly assure you that I shall never marry."

"Ah! how I thank you!" cried Antoinette. "You have restored my
happiness and my peace of mind."

Love is selfish, and Antoinette knew nothing of Dolores' struggles. She
did not attempt to fathom the motives of her friend, and relieved by the
assurance she had just received, and no longer doubting her ability to
regain her lost influence ov