e affair, though what I felt may be conjectured.
I knew,--I was perfectly certain,--that Dolores loved me as I loved her.
I knew that she had one of those simple and unworldly natures which
wealth and splendor could not satisfy, and whose life would lie entirely
in her affections. Sometimes I violently debated with myself whether
honor required me to sacrifice her happiness as well as my own, and I
felt the strongest temptation to ask her to be my wife and fly with me
to the Northern states, where I did not doubt my ability to make for her
a humble and happy home.

But the sense of honor is often stronger than all reasoning, and I felt
that such a course would be the betrayal of a trust; and I determined at
least to command myself till I should see the character of the man who
was destined to be her husband.

Meanwhile the whole manner of Dolores was changed. She maintained a
stony, gloomy silence, performed all her duties in a listless way, and
occasionally, when I commented on anything in her lessons or exercises,
would break into little flashes of petulance, most strange and unnatural
in her. Sometimes I could feel that she was looking at me earnestly, but
if I turned my eyes toward her, hers were instantly averted; but there
was in her eyes a peculiar expression at times, such as I have seen in
the eye of a hunted animal when it turned at bay,--a sort of desperate
resistance,--which, taken in connection with her fragile form and lovely
face, produced a mournful impression.

One morning I found Dolores sitting alone in the schoolroom, leaning her
head on her arms. She had on her wrist a bracelet of peculiar
workmanship, which she always wore,--the bracelet which was afterwards
the means of confirming her identity. She sat thus some moments in
silence, and then she raised her head and began turning this bracelet
round and round upon her arm, while she looked fixedly before her. At
last she spoke abruptly, and said,--

"Did I ever tell you that this was _my mother's_ hair? It is my mother's
hair,--and she was the only one that ever loved me; except poor old
Mammy, nobody else loves me,--nobody ever will."

"My dear Miss Dolores," I began.

"Don't call me dear," she said; "you don't care for me,--nobody
does,--papa doesn't, and I always loved him; everybody in the house
wants to get rid of me, whether I like to go or not. I have always tried
to be good and do all you wanted, and I should think _you_ might care
fo