Cruelly tried by the loss of her benefactress and by her mental conflicts on the subject of Philip, Dolores forgot her own sorrows and devoted herself entirely to the task of consoling Antoinette. It was not long before the latter became more cheerful. This was the work of Dolores. They talked of their past, and Dolores concealed nothing from her new friend. She confessed, without any false shame or false modesty, that she had entered the house of the Marquis as a beggar. Antoinette, in her turn, spoke of herself. She knew nothing of France. Her childhood had been spent in Louisiana; and she talked enthusiastically of the lovely country she had left. Dolores, to divert her companion's thoughts from grief, made Philip tell her what he knew about Paris Versailles and the court, and the Marquis, not without design probably, did his best to place in the most favorable light those attributes of mind and of heart that made Philip the most attractive of men. Like another Desdemona charmed by the eloquence of Othello, it was while listening to Philip that Antoinette first began to love him. After a month's sojourn at Chamondrin, she came to the conclusion that Philip was kind, good, irresistible in short; and she was by no means unwilling to become the Marquise de Chamondrin. Nor did she conceal these feelings from Dolores, little suspecting, how she was torturing her friend by these revelations. It was then that the absolute impossibility of a marriage with Philip first became clearly apparent to Dolores. Antoinette's confession was like the flash of lightning which suddenly discloses a yawning precipice to the traveller on a dark and lonely road. She saw the insurmountable barrier between them more distinctly than ever before. Could she compete with Antoinette? Yes; if her love and that of Philip were to be considered. No; if rank, wealth, all the advantages that Antoinette possessed, and which the Marquis required in his son's bride, were to be taken into consideration. What a terrible night Dolores spent after Antoinette's confession! How she wept! What anguish she endured! The young girls occupied the same room and if one was unconscious of the sufferings of her companion, it was only because Dolores stifled her sobs. She was unwilling to let Antoinette see what she termed "her weakness." She felt neither hatred nor envy towards her friend, for she knew that Antoinette was not to blame. She wept, not from anger or jealousy, but from despair.