After supper, when I had undressed Marjorie, who was soon asleep, and had put on a chamber gown preparatory to writing letters, a timid tap at my door told me that Mariposilla was without. So fond had I become of the child that I instantly forgot my recent resentment. Not waiting for the penitent to come to me I met her at the door. Drawing her to the couch I urged her to tell me quietly the cause of her unhappiness. "The señora will think me unworthy of her love," she cried, chokingly. "No, dear," I replied, "I shall always love you. I have had many sorrows myself, and I know how hard it is to speak of them; but always when I have confided in a true friend, I have felt better and sorry that I had not sought relief sooner." "I will tell you," she said, "and then you may despise me." She was very beautiful as she half drooped before me, her great eyes moist, her dark hair loose about her shoulders. "Tell me all, dear child," I urged, as she still hesitated. "I am most wicked!" she cried desperately. "I love not my people; I am unhappy because I am not an American." A gush of tears terminated the confession. "Poor child!" I said, drawing her to my side; "I am glad that you have told me your trouble, for I think I can help you very soon." She lifted her face appealingly while I spoke. "Yes," I continued, "I am sure that I understand your unhappiness. You are not untrue to your people. You only desire to be an American because you have perceived that they are more in touch with the times than your own nation, who, from loss of fortune and other causes, are not what they once were, or what they will some day be again. Your poor little heart and mind are starving for food. You must be nourished, and then you will be happy. It is perfectly right that you should admire the superior attainments and polished manners of a race not your own. It means no disloyalty to your people, only the desire for a broader life and a higher culture. "You may be sure, dear child, that no one is ever satisfied. The yearnings of the heart after unattainable desires is common in God's wide creation. The longings of the savage are only different in degree from yours or mine. Race puts no limits upon pure and laudable ambition. "It is not necessary for you to be an American to be all that a lovely woman should be. The daughter of the brave, wonderful Doña Maria Del Valle can make of herself whatever she determines." Mariposilla was still weeping gently. "You are very beautiful, dear child," I continued. "More beautiful than any American girl I ever knew. Still there is a beauty which shines from the soul and from the mind that you must try daily to acquire. Then you will be lovely, without flaw.