"Oh!" Zoe ejaculates. "Will you go? Who asked you? Won't it be sublime?"
Zoe's eyes dilate, and a wish, not altogether unnatural in a girl fifteen years old, arises in her mind, to be Dolores. Now, however, Dolores smiles faintly, and says slowly,
"I shall think it over. The Hon. Jeremiah Hopkins sent the invitation, and as to its being sublime, I suppose so."
Then Dolores arises and goes across the lawn towards the house, with her white dress trailing over the green grass behind her. Pretty, graceful, sweet Dolores. What was the reason no one cared to be seen talking to her? And in crowded parlors or assemblies, if her name happened to be mentioned, why did virtuous mammas look at the person who spoke her name with such a shocked expression? Surely gentle Dolores could not have wronged any one by word or deed. A gentleman once said, speaking of Miss Litchfield, "That if ever a true, pure woman lived, a woman on whom any man might stake his life and honor, it was a woman like Dolores Litchfield whom he might trust." And it is quite safe to say, that this praise did not make Dolores any more of a favourite with the roomful of ladies of all ages, where the remark was made.
CHAPTER II.
I SHALL SNUB HER.
"A favourite has no friends."
—Gray.