After supper, when I had undressed Marjorie, who was soon asleep, and had put on a chamber gown preparatory to writing letters, a timid tap at my door told me that Mariposilla was without. So fond had I become of the child that I instantly forgot my recent resentment. Not waiting for the penitent to come to me I met her at the door. Drawing her to the couch I urged her to tell me quietly the cause of her unhappiness.
"The señora will think me unworthy of her love," she cried, chokingly.
"No, dear," I replied, "I shall always love you. I have had many sorrows myself, and I know how hard it is to speak of them; but always when I have confided in a true friend, I have felt better and sorry that I had not sought relief sooner."
"I will tell you," she said, "and then you may despise me."
She was very beautiful as she half drooped before me, her great eyes moist, her dark hair loose about her shoulders.
"Tell me all, dear child," I urged, as she still hesitated.
"I am most wicked!" she cried desperately. "I love not my people; I am unhappy because I am not an American."
A gush of tears terminated the confession.
"Poor child!" I said, drawing her to my side; "I am glad that you have told me your trouble, for I think I can help you very soon."
She lifted her face appealingly while I spoke.