“She is very pretty, I am obliged to confess, though I always prefer a fairer style of beauty,--however that is but a matter of taste,--but to think of my only son’s marrying one of her class is something I cannot endure.” “Would you rather he would marry Eliza Jane Binney, or Annamela Stuckett?” “Oh, my dear, why need he marry either of them? Ah, Alison, why cannot you save him and us from an unfortunate alliance? He is very young, barely of age. If you would but encourage him he would probably get over this fancy.” “I couldn’t encourage him for two reasons,” replied Alison. “One is that I could never be so disloyal to a friend as to try to steal away her lover. Lolita’s friendship is dear to me and I want to be worthy of it, because I love her. The other reason is,” she looked down at the sparkling jewel on her hand, “that there is some one else whom I would not give up for any man living.” Mrs. Van Dorn looked the disappointment she felt, and released Alison’s hand which she had been holding. “In that case,” she said, after a moment’s silence, “I suppose I must give up the hope I have indulged in this year past. My only chance is to appeal to the girl. I suppose I can see her?” She turned to Christine. “Please don’t say anything to hurt her feelings,” said Alison impulsively. “My dear,” replied Mrs. Van Dorn, with dignity, “I hope I know enough not to wilfully injure any one. If the girl has the good sense and the refinement you invest her with, she will understand what I wish to convey without many words of mine. Christine, will you go with me to her house? and then, if you do not mind, I should like to see her privately.” Christine had no alternative but to consent, and the two started for the small cabin just outside the door of which Lolita was busy with her tortillas. She was singing a little song: “Baila preciosa niña, Baila sin mas tardar.” It had a sweet and spring-like melody, though a minor cadence ran through it, in spite of the joyous movement it suggested. Mrs. Van Dorn could but admire the picture the girl made against the background of spring green, her arms moving with youthful grace as she slapped her tortillas from hand to hand keeping time to her song. As she saw who accompanied Christine she looked up with a startled expression, and the tortilla fell to the ground unnoticed. She stepped back as if to retreat, and then with eyes downcast, came forward and stood the pattern of girlish confusion. “Lolita, this is Mrs. Van Dorn who has come to see you,” said Christine, and Lolita made a timid obeisance. It was a moment fraught with terror for her, and she would willingly have escaped. But her courtesy did not forsake her. “My father’s house is yours, señora,” she said. “Will you enter?”