‘No, Señor, it is not that,’ returned the lady. ‘I—’ and a flood of colour once more mounted to her brow—‘I am confused and ashamed because I have deceived you. Spanish,’ she began, and paused—‘Spanish is, of course, my native tongue,’ she resumed, as though suddenly taking courage; ‘and this should certainly put the highest value on your thoughtful present; but alas, sir, of what use is it to me? And how shall I confess to you the truth—the humiliating truth—that I cannot read?’ As Harry’s eyes met hers in undisguised amazement, the fair Cuban seemed to shrink before his gaze. ‘Read?’ repeated Harry. ‘You!’ She pushed the window still more widely open with a large and noble gesture. ‘Enter, Señor,’ said she. ‘The time has come to which I have long looked forward, not without alarm; when I must either fear to lose your friendship, or tell you without disguise the story of my life.’ It was with a sentiment bordering on devotion, that Harry passed the window. A semi-barbarous delight in form and colour had presided over the studied disorder of the room in which he found himself. It was filled with dainty stuffs, furs and rugs and scarves of brilliant hues, and set with elegant and curious trifles-fans on the mantelshelf, an antique lamp upon a bracket, and on the table a silver-mounted bowl of cocoa-nut about half full of unset jewels. The fair Cuban, herself a gem of colour and the fit masterpiece for that rich frame, motioned Harry to a seat, and sinking herself into another, thus began her history. _STORY OF THE FAIR CUBAN_