card may not be familiar to you--but I am 'Dorothy Dewdrop.'"

A slight movement of abstraction and surprise passed over Don
Jose's face, but as quickly vanished as he advanced towards her and
gracefully raised the tips of her fingers to his lips. "Have I
then, at last, the privilege of beholding that most distressed and
deeply injured of women! Or is it but a dream!"

It certainly was not, as far as concerned the substantial person of
the woman before him, who, however, seemed somewhat uneasy under
his words as well as the demure scrutiny of Miss Jenkinson. "I
thought you might have forgotten," she said with slight acerbity,
"that you desired an interview with the authoress of"--

"Pardon," interrupted Don Jose, standing before her in an attitude
of the deepest sympathizing dejection, "I had not forgotten. It is
now three weeks since I have read in the journal 'Golden Gate' the
eloquent and touching poem of your sufferings, and your
aspirations, and your miscomprehensions by those you love. I
remember as yesterday that you have said, that cruel fate have
linked you to a soulless state--that--but I speak not well your own
beautiful language--you are in tears at evenfall 'because that you
are not understood of others, and that your soul recoiled from iron
bonds, until, as in a dream, you sought succor and release in some
true Knight of equal plight.'"

"I am told," said the large-featured woman with some satisfaction,
"that the poem to which you allude has been generally admired."

"Admired! Senora," said Don Jose, with still darker sympathy, "it