"We never heard," said Dolores, sadly, "not once."
"But I wrote," said Ashby, earnestly. "Don't you believe me, Dolores?"
"Believe you, señor? What a question! It was the fault of the post-office in these times of trouble—that was all. And, señor, 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, señor," 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.