"of bringing you a little book. I
thought of you, when I observed it on the stall, because I saw it was in
Spanish. The man assured me it was by one of the best authors, and quite
proper." As he spoke, he placed the little volume in her hand. Her eyes
fell as she turned the pages, and a flush rose and died again upon her
cheeks, as deep as it was fleeting. "You are angry," he cried in agony.
"I have presumed."

"No, Senor, it is not that," returned the lady. "I"--and a flood of
colour once more mounted to her brow--"I am confused and ashamed because
I have deceived you. Spanish," she began, and paused--"Spanish is of
course my native tongue," she resumed, as though suddenly taking
courage; "and this should certainly put the highest value on your
thoughtful present; but alas, sir, of what use is it to me? And how
shall I confess to you the truth--the humiliating truth--that I cannot
read?"

As Harry's eyes met hers in undisguised amazement, the fair Cuban seemed
to shrink before his gaze. "Read?" repeated Harry. "You!"

She pushed the window still more widely open with a large and noble
gesture. "Enter, Senor," said she. "The time has come to which I have
long looked forward, not without alarm; when I must either fear to lose
your friendship, or tell you without disguise the story of my life."

It was with a sentiment bordering on devotion that Harry passed the
window. A semi-barbarous delight in form and colour had presided over
the studied disorder of the room in which he found himself. It was
filled with dainty stuffs, furs and rugs and scarves of brilliant hues,
and set with elegant and curious trifles--fans on the mantelshelf, an
antique lamp upon a bracket, and on the table a silver-mounted bowl of
cocoa-nut about half full of unset jewels. The fair Cuban, herself a gem
of colour and the fit masterpiece for that rich frame, motioned Harry to
a seat, and, sinking herself into another, thus began her history.

STORY OF THE FAIR CUBAN

I am not what I seem. My father drew his descent, on the one hand, from
grandees of Spain, and on the other, through the maternal line, from the
patriot Bruce. My mother, too, was the descendant of a line of kings;
but, alas! these kings were African. She was fair as the day: fairer
than I, for I inherited a darker stain of blood from the veins of my
European father; her mind was noble, her manners queenly and
accomplished; and seeing her more than the equal of her neighb