n 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.

"A friend!" repeated Don Jose. "Ah, I see, of possibility a dear one,
even," he continued, gazing with tender melancholy into the untroubled
cerulean depths of Polly's eyes, "even, but no, child, it could not be!
THOU art too young."

"Ah," said Polly, with an extraordinary gulp and a fierce nudge of the
poetess, "but it WAS me."

"You, Senorita," repeated Don Jose, falling back in an attitude of
mingled admiration and pity. "You, the child of Jenkinson!"

"Yes, yes," joined in the poetess hurriedly; "but that isn't going to
stop the consequences of your wretched blunder. My husband will be
furious, and will be here at any moment. Good gracious! what is that?"

The violent slamming of a distant doo