"I have something to tell you, Don Arturo," she continued, "something I should have told you this morning. It is not too late now. But it is a secret. It is only that I have questioned my right to tell it--not that I have doubted your honour, Don Arturo, that I withheld it then." Arthur raised his eyes to hers. It was her turn to evade his glance. With her long lashes drooped, she went on-- "It is five years ago, and my father--whom may the Saints assoil--was alive. Came to us then at the Presidio of San Geronimo, a young girl--an American, a stranger and helpless. She had escaped from a lost camp in the snowy mountains where her family and friends were starving. That was the story she told my father. It was a probable one--was it not?" Arthur bowed his head, but did not reply. "But the name that she gave was not a true one, as it appeared. My father had sent an _Expedicion_ to relieve these people, and they had found among the dead the person whom this young girl--the stranger--assumed to be. That was their report. The name of the young girl who was found dead and the name of the young girl who came to us was the same. It was Grace Conroy." Arthur's face did not move a muscle, nor did he once take his eyes from the drooping lids of his companion. "It was a grave matter--a very grave matter. And it was the more surprising because the young girl had at first given another name--the name of Grace Ashley--which she afterwards explained was the name of the young man who helped her to escape, and whose sister she at first assumed to be. My father was a good man, a kind man--a saint, Don Arturo. It was not for him to know if she were Grace Ashley or Grace Conroy--it was enough for him to know that she was alive, weak, helpless, suffering. Against the advice of his officers, he look her into his own house, into his own family, into his own fatherly heart, to wait until her brother, or this Philip Ashley, should return. He never returned. In six months she was taken ill--very ill--a little child was born--Don Arturo--but in the same moment it died and the mother died--both, you comprehend--both died--in my arms!" "That was bad," said Arthur, curtly. "I do not comprehend," said Donna Dolores. "Pardon. Do not misunderstand me. I say it was bad, for I really believe that this girl, the mysterious stranger, with the _alias_, was really Grace Conroy." Donna Dolores raised her eyes and stared at Arthur. "And why?" "Because the identification of the bodies by the _Expedicion_ was hurried and imperfect." "How know you this?" Arthur arose and drew his chair a little nearer his fair client.