"And I have come, as you perceive," said the poetess, rising with a slight smile of constraint; "and emboldened by your appreciation, I have brought a few trifles thrown off"-- "Pardon, unhappy Senora," interrupted Don Jose, lifting his hand deprecatingly without relaxing his melancholy precision, "but to a cavalier further evidence is not required--and I have not yet make finish. I have not content myself to WRITE to you. I have sent my trusty friend Roberto to inquire at the 'Golden Gate' of your condition. I have found there, most unhappy and persecuted friend--that with truly angelic forbearance you have not told ALL--that you are MARRIED, and that of a necessity it is your husband that is cold and soulless and unsympathizing--and all that you describe." "Sir!" said the poetess, rising in angry consternation. "I have written to him," continued Don Jose, with unheeding gravity; "have appealed to him as a friend, I have conjured him as a caballero, I have threatened him even as a champion of the Right, I have said to him, in effect--that this must not be as it is. I have informed him that I have made an appointment with you even at this house, and I challenged him to meet you here--in this room--even at this instant, and, with God's help, we should make good our charges against him. It is yet early; I have allowed time for the lateness of the stage and the fact that he will come by another conveyance. Therefore, O Dona Dewdrop, tremble not like thy namesake as it were on the leaf of apprehension and expectancy. I, Don Jose, am here to protect thee. I will take these charges"--gently withdrawing the manuscripts from her astonished grasp--"though even, as I related to thee before, I want them not, yet we will together confront him with them and make them good against him." "Are you mad?" demanded the lady in almost stentorious accents, "or is this an unmanly hoax?" Suddenly she stopped in undeniable consternation. "Good heavens," she muttered, "if Abner should believe this. He is SUCH a fool! He has lately been queer and jealous. Oh dear!" she said, turning to Polly Jenkinson with the first indication of feminine weakness, "Is he telling the truth? is he crazy? what shall I do?" Polly Jenkinson, who had witnessed the interview with the intensest enjoyment, now rose equal to the occasion. "You have made a mistake," she said, uplifting her demure blue eyes to Don Jose's dark and melancholy gaze. "This lady is a POETESS! The sufferings she depicts, the sorrows she feels, are in the IMAGINATION, in her fancy only." "Ah!" said Don Jose gloomily; "then it is all false." "No," said Polly quickly, "only they are not her OWN, you know. They are somebody elses. She only describes them for another, don't you see?" "And who, then, is this unhappy one?" asked the Don quickly. "Well--a--friend," stammered Polly, hesitatingly.