A milk-and-water heroine, always melancholy, and shedding a profusion of tears to evince sensibility, is the reasonable abhorrence of every sensible reader. But Doña Viola was not of this kind, as the countess well knew. That kind soul reproached herself secretly for broaching a subject likely to recall unhappy recollections in the breast of her charge, and said something to that effect, while drawing an arm caressingly around her. “You do yourself injustice, dear lady Hermosa,” Viola said after an interval, “nothing we have seen or said, has earned me any pain. You know my past history,” she added, “and what a ban has been laid upon my future, by recent events, and should not wonder much at my yielding to grief whenever your attention is withdrawn.” “You must endeavor, poor little dove, to let your wounds heal, and forget the author of them,” the countess answered compassionately, scarcely knowing what to say. Doña Viola looked at her friend with a faint smile. “Did I mention him frequently in my delirium?” she asked rather abruptly. “Why yes,” Doña Hermosa replied, hesitatingly. “Dear cousin,” Viola cried quickly, “be assured of this; Señor de Ladron is nothing to me: not a particle of the affection, I blush now to have entertained for him, remains. You see, I speak quite calmly of it; I could not have done so prior to the fever, which has apparently revolutionized my mind, but in truth, only made the climax of an unhappy passion, after which, comes this quiet.” “Heaven be praised!” the countess exclaimed, with a sense of great relief. “Yes, the saints are my witness, I loved him not obstinately but dutifully, and until immediately preceding the return of Don Augustino to Madrid, when the wickedness of the steps he took to annul our betrothment, first came to my knowledge, (and crazed me, I believe,) I had always believed him faithful to the letter, if not to the spirit, of our ill-advised contract: for he never once made an appeal, which self-respect would have compelled me to acquiesce in, had I loved him thrice as much. The most I did, was to suspect his coolness, but I easily found excuse for that, as any woman would, and for many painful scenes which I thought time and marriage would remedy. I purposed being a good wife to him.” “Angels of mercy!” her friend broke in. “Did you receive no notes, no messages from him, insisting upon the contract being annulled!” “None,” Viola answered. “Whatever I may have said to Don Pedro and yourself, in delirium, the truth is, as I have just related it.” “Then, there has been very, very wicked work.” Hermosa exclaimed, with extraordinary vehemence for so placid a disposition. “Oh that I were a man—a knight. Oh, that Don Pedro, or even Señor Inique, were here to ferret out this mystery!” With which wild words, to show how much she was a woman, and how dependent on the absent hero, she fell upon the neck of her disturbed protegée, and the two wept in great harmony together.