was on my way to Barcelona. When
I left you I resumed my interrupted journey. Then I went to
Marseilles and Leghorn, then to Cadiz, and finally to Madrid. I've
been in Madrid three months."

"And you didn't think it worth while to write to us in all that long
time?" said Dolores, with a reproachfulness in her tone which was now
very marked.

"Write?" said Ashby; "why, I wrote twice--once from Marseilles, and
once from Leghorn."

"We never heard," said Dolores, sadly, "not once."

"But I wrote," said Ashby, earnestly. "Don't you believe me,
Dolores?"

"Believe you, senor? What a question! It was the fault of the
post-office in these times of trouble--that was all. And, senor, I am
very glad to know all, for I did not know what to think about it."

"And am I forgiven, Dolores?" Ashby asked.

Dolores replied with a sweet smile, and held out her hand, which the
young man took and pressed tenderly, not caring to let it go.

"I did not know," said he, "there was anything against me to be
forgiven; but this is a sign that you are the same Dolores that you
were a year ago."

"Always," said she, "always the same;" and then she withdrew her
hand.

"And now, senor," said she, with a perceptible effort, as of one who
approaches a disagreeable subject, "this beautiful Inglesa--who is
she?"

Ashby's eyes fell before the fixed and profound inquiry of those of
Dolores's, who watched him close, and lost nothing of his change of
features.

"This lady?" said he, and hesitated.

"Yes," said Dolores, gently.

"She is a--a--Miss Westlotorn."

"And she loves you very, very, very dearly and tenderly," said
Dolores, in a quick, breathless voice; "and you are going to be
married to her, and she will soon be your wife."

Ashby said nothing, but sat looking strangely embarrassed.

"You never mentioned her to us at Valencia," continued Dolores.

"No," said Ashby.

"And why not?" asked Dolores, who saw his confusion, but was eager to
know the truth.

"I had not seen her," said Ashby.

"You had not seen her," repeated Dolores. "Ah!"--she hesitated for a
moment and then went on--"so you saw her afterward. And she loves
you!"

These last words were spoken with indescribable tenderness and
mournfulness. "And--she--loves--you," she repeated, in a voice that
had sunk almost to a whisper; "and she is to be your wife--the
English girl!"

"Well," said Ashby, making an effort to overcome his embarrassment,
"it is--it is abou