spite of her shrinking back. In
fact, the poor little thing did not seem to have the will to get away
from him, for the end of it was that her head fell down helplessly on
his breast, and she began to cry:

"I--think--it's--cruel," she sobbed, "cruel in you!"

Ashby pressed her more closely to his heart in the same "cruel"
manner, and kissed away her tears.

"You're not kind to me at all," sighed Dolores.

To this observation Ashby made no reply, thinking, perhaps, that at
that moment words were of no particular use.

"It's very cruel," repeated Dolores, "and I did not think you would
be so unkind--"

To this Ashby's answer was, as before, by acts that were more
eloquent than words.

"Dolores," said he, as soon as he was able to express himself
coherently, "if you had not come, I really think I should have killed
myself."

"Did you really feel so badly?" asked Dolores, in a tender voice.

"My heart ached," said Ashby; "it ached for the sight of you. Do you
know what heartache is, darling? Do you know what it is to hunger
and thirst and long and yearn after some one?"

Dolores sighed. She said nothing, but her head rested more closely on
Ashby's breast, and one little hand stole timidly up and was laid
lightly on his shoulder.

"Do you know anything about such feelings, Dolores?" persisted Ashby.

"All," said Dolores, in a scarce audible whisper, "all--all--all! But
tell me," said she, looking up as though trying to see his face in
the gloom, "who was it?"

"Who was it? What a question! You! you, darling! you, Dolores!"

"Not the English maiden?" she asked.

"She!" said Ashby, contemptuously; "she is a doll--a butterfly--a
kitten! She is nothing--a poor creature with no brains and no heart!
Even her beauty is mere prettiness. There is no soul in her face, no
lightning in her glance."

"And who has soul in her face and lightning in her glance?" asked
Dolores, shyly.

"Who? You! you, my darling, dark-eyed Dolores! you, with your deep,
unfathomable, glowing, soul-lit eyes that pierce to my inmost heart,
and make me thrill at the recollection."

"And won't you say that all again?" said Dolores; "and won't you say
that about the English maid? I love to hear you call her names."

Dolores said this with the innocence and frank simplicity of a child.

"She is a baby!" said Ashby; "the English maiden--a mere baby! She
can only smile, and smile, and be silly. Her only desire is to find
some one who will