e spoken, through the closed window and
the heavy curtains, but the mere tones told her that Don John and
Dolores were there together. That was enough for her, and she could go
back to her room; for it seemed quite natural to her that her sister
should be in the keeping of the man she loved,--she was out of harm's
way and beyond their father's power, and that was all that was
necessary. She would go back to her room at once, and explain the matter
of her dress to Eudaldo as best she might. After all, why should he care
what she wore or where she had been, or whether in the Princess's
apartments she had for some reason exchanged gowns with Dolores. Perhaps
he would not even notice the dress at all.

She meant to go at once, but she stood quite still, her hands resting on
the low sill of the window, while her forehead pressed against the cold
round panes of glass. Something hurt her which she could not understand,
as she tried to fancy the two beautiful young beings who were
within,--for she knew what beauty they had, and Dolores had described
Don John to her as a young god. His voice came to her like strains of
very distant sweet music, that connect themselves to an unknown melody
in the fancy of him who faintly hears. But Dolores was hearing every
word he said, and it was all for her; and Dolores not only heard, but
saw; and seeing and hearing, she was loved by the man who spoke to her,
as dearly as she loved him.

Then utter loneliness fell upon the blind girl as she leaned against the
window. She had expected nothing, she had asked nothing, even in her
heart; and she had less than nothing, since never on earth, nor in
heaven hereafter, could Don John say a loving word to her. And yet she
felt that something had been taken from her and given to her
sister,--something that was more to her than life, and dearer than the
thought of sight to her blindness. She had taken what had not been given
her, in innocent girlish thoughts that were only dreams, and could hurt
no one. He had always spoken gently to her, and touched her hand kindly;
and many a time, sitting alone in the sun, she had set those words to
the well-remembered music of his voice, and she had let the memory of
his light touch on her fingers thrill her strangely to the very quick.
It had been but the reflection of a reflection in her darkness, wherein
the shadow of a shadow seemed as bright as day. It had been all she had
to make her feel that she was a part o