"Yes," said Dolores, in a tone of indescribable tenderness; "yes, she loved you--the dear mamma--like a mother, and has always talked about you. It is always, Dolores, child, sing that song that Senor Assebi taught you; sing that beautiful, beautiful English song of 'Sweet Home;' sing that sweetest, loveliest, most mournful Scottish song of 'Lochaber.'" And here, in a voice full of exquisite tenderness and pathos, Dolores sang that mournful air, "Lochaber," with Spanish words. The tender regret of her voice affected herself; she faltered, and her eyes filled; but the tears were instantly chased away by a sunny smile. "And so, senor," said she, "you see that I have forgotten nothing of it--nothing." "Nor I," said Ashby; "nor I--nothing. I have forgotten not one thing." His voice was low and tremulous. There was a strange, yearning look in his eyes. With a sudden impulse he held out his hand, as though to take hers, but Dolores gently drew hers away. "And have you been in Madrid ever since?" she asked, in a tone that seemed to convey something of reproach. "No," said Ashby. "You know, when I fell ill at Valencia, where you saved my life by your tender care, I was on my way to Barcelona. When I left you I resumed my interrupted journey. Then I went to Marseilles and Leghorn, then to Cadiz, and finally to Madrid. I've been in Madrid three months." "And you didn't think it worth while to write to us in all that long time?" said Dolores, with a reproachfulness in her tone which was now very marked. "Write?" said Ashby; "why, I wrote twice--once from Marseilles, and once from Leghorn." "We never heard," said Dolores, sadly, "not once." "But I wrote," said Ashby, earnestly. "Don't you believe me, Dolores?" "Believe you, senor? What a question! It was the fault of the post-office in these times of trouble--that was all. And, senor, 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, senor," 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. "Yes," said Dolores, gently. "She is a--a--Miss Westlotorn." "And she loves you very, very, very dearly and tenderly," said Dolores, in a quick, breathless voice; "and you are going to be married to her, and she will soon be your wife." Ashby said nothing, but sat looking strangely embarrassed.