Helena cast an admiring glance upon her companion.
"Well, I should not suppose you would be?" she responded, "because you are more beautiful than any heroine I ever read about, and that makes all the difference in the world, you know."
Dolores let a whole arm full of mantles and dresses fall in a heap upon the floor, as she turned and stared at the speaker.
"Are you making sport of me?" she asked, bluntly.
"I, making sport of you? Why, I would not be so rude," cried Helena, the tears starting to her eyes again. "Perhaps I ought not to have spoken so plainly—may be you think 'praise to the face is an open disgrace;' but I do not believe that. If I like any thing or any body, I can not help saying so; and I thought you must know how very beautiful you are, and I spoke of it just as I would speak of the beauty of a flower or a picture. I am sorry if I have annoyed you."
Dolores picked up the scattered garments and began to arrange them in order.
"Well, you are the oddest girl I ever met," she said. "But you have not annoyed me; I am sure it is very sweet of you to say such pretty things to me; only I never knew any girl who talked like that before: girls are usually so hateful, you know."
"Are they?" and there was real grief in Helena's voice. "Oh, I don't like to believe that is true."
"But have not you found them so?"
"No; but you see I have known very few girls. I have lived very quietly at home, and I never even staid all night with a girl in my life—mamma never liked to have me. No doubt I have a great deal to learn, but I always longed for a sister, and I thought girls were very nice indeed."