Dolores smiled in her lazy fashion; she is too much accustomed to Zoe's "ways," to say anything.
"Dolores, talk to me; tell me a story, anything to put in the time, something you saw on your visit abroad; it must be an Italian story; dear, beautiful, sunny Italy! Oh, Dolores! what would I not give to be there! What pictures I could paint! I did not for one moment begrudge your going, but if I could have had the chance, I would have painted pictures which would have made me famous. Oh, Dolores, think what it is to be famous. Some day, it may be far off or it may be near, but the time will surely come, when you will be proud to own me as your sister. I want—my ambition is—to be great, grand, noble."
Dolores laughs. "And good, my sister; that is better than all," she says, smiling. "My ambitious little one, do not be too eager, you have all your life before you yet; fame will not be caught easily; she demands much chasing, and those who pursue her have many slips and tumbles before they achieve their end, so be patient. And now for the story."
"Well, once upon a time there was a castle in Italy, a beautiful, costly, grand structure. The lord of the castle was a brave, generous gentleman, honorable and true. His lady was lovely, proud, and intensely jealous of her very charming husband; she had a gentle serving maid, Christina, a girl as pure in thought and deed as the lily; they had grown up as playfellows. The Countess was very fond of her, for she was not like her other friends. The Countess would quarrel with any and every one, on account of her fiery temper; with Christina she never quarreled. The maid was fond of solitude, and passed her spare time in wandering alone among a grove of beautiful trees, her white dress could often be seen as she paced back and forth among the dark trees, and gained for her, among the people, the name of the White Lady. The Countess' room was costly and elegant, the toilet table was of massive silver, covered with a profusion of everything handsome. Her chair was placed in front of the glass, and one day, so the legend runs, she was sitting there, while Christina was combing her mistress's golden hair; the Count was called away on urgent business, and as he passed through the door she saw, as she believed, a smile, a glance at parting, given and answered, that turned her heart almost to stone. That night, ere the moon was up, Christina was led forth; no instrument of death was used, not one hair of her head was harmed. In all the full glow of life and health, fair, gentle, good Christina was walled up within the castle walls, in a vault under the chapel. And now, every night, at the same hour, a figure stands, with eyes uplifted, and hands clasped in prayer, then it vanishes, and the hunter meets her on his hunting track, and the shepherd on the heath starts and exclaims, 'It is the White Lady!'"
Dolores' voice sinks to a whisper; there are tears in her dusky eyes. Surely one would think the sad story of poor Christina awakened more than a passing feeling of sadness for her in Dolores' kind heart. Zoe was too much interested to notice her sister's silence.
"And you really walked in the Countess' own room, saw the grove where Christina walked and spent her lonely hours of solitude, and the vault which she never came out of?"
"Yes, dear, it was all very lovely, sad and beautiful," the eldest Miss Litchfield replies. "But look! your patience is rewarded; there comes the postman in at the gate."
Zoe darts off in quest of the daily post. Before many minutes she is back again, her face wreathed in smiles, for there actually was a letter addressed to Miss Zoe Litchfield, from an affectionate girl friend; and soon Zoe is deep in its contents. Dolores languidly scans the handwriting on the large square envelope addressed to herself, then breaks the seal, and reads; and as she reads a gleam of satisfaction, quickly followed by one of sorrow, passes over her ever changing face.
"What's in yours, Dolores?" Zoe asks, putting her own epistle in the pocket of her white frilled apron.
"There is to be a yachting party, and I have been invited to join it," Dolores answers, absently gazing at a rose bush stirred by the breeze.