senor?" she asked, sweetly.

"Yes," said Ashby, looking at her intently.

Dolores returned his look with another, the intensity of which was
wonderful to Ashby. He seemed to look into the depths of her soul,
and the lustrous eyes which were fastened on his appeared as though
they strove to read his inmost heart. Her manner, however, was light
and bantering, and it was with a merry smile that she went on:

"Ah! so I have changed? And how, senor--for the better?"

"No, and yes," said Ashby, drinking in her dark, deep, liquid
glances. "In the first place, you could not possibly be better or
more beautiful than you used to be; but, in the second place, you are
more womanly."

"But I am not yet seventeen, senor."

"I know," said Ashby, of course.

"And you have not yet asked after the dear one--the mamma, who loves
you so," said Dolores, in rather an inconsequential way.

"I was thinking of you, so that all other thoughts were driven out of
my head."

"That's pretty," said Dolores; "but do you not want to hear about the
dear mamma?"

"Of course. I shall love her and revere her till I die. Did she not
save my life? Was she not a mother to me in my sorest need? And you,
Dolores--"

He stopped short, and seemed somewhat confused and agitated.

"Yes," said Dolores, in a tone of indescribable tenderness; "yes, she
loved you--the dear mamma--like a mother, and has always talked about
you. It is always, Dolores, child, sing that song that Senor Assebi
taught you; sing that beautiful, beautiful English song of 'Sweet
Home;' sing that sweetest, loveliest, most mournful Scottish song of
'Lochaber.'"

And here, in a voice full of exquisite tenderness and pathos, Dolores
sang that mournful air, "Lochaber," with Spanish words. The tender
regret of her voice affected herself; she faltered, and her eyes
filled; but the tears were instantly chased away by a sunny smile.

"And so, senor," said she, "you see that I have forgotten nothing of
it--nothing."

"Nor I," said Ashby; "nor I--nothing. I have forgotten not one
thing."

His voice was low and tremulous. There was a strange, yearning look
in his eyes. With a sudden impulse he held out his hand, as though to
take hers, but Dolores gently drew hers away.

"And have you been in Madrid ever since?" she asked, in a tone that
seemed to convey something of reproach.

"No," said Ashby. "You know, when I fell ill at Valencia, where you
saved my life by your tender care, I