wonder, if I spoke to her mother?"
Here the lover--the Paul of this Virginia--moved, and the shadows slid
off his face; it was Doro!

Alone in her chamber sat Miss Elisabetha. Days had passed, but of no
avail. Even now the boy was gone to the tumble-down house in the village
where Catalina's little brothers and sisters swarmed out of doors and
windows, and the brown, broad mother bade him welcome with a hearty slap
on the shoulder. She had tried everything--argument, entreaty, anger,
grief--and failed; there remained now only the secret, the secret of
years, of much toil and many pains. The money was not yet sufficient for
two; so be it. She would stay herself, and work on; but he should go.
Before long she would hear his step, perhaps not until late, for those
people had no settled hours (here a remembrance of all their ways made
her shudder), but come he would in time; this was still his home. At
midnight she heard the footfall, and opening the door called gently,
"Theodore, Theodore." The youth came, but slowly. Many times had she
called him lately, and he was weary of the strife. Had he not told her
all--the girl singing as she passed, her voice haunting him, his search
for her, and her smile; their meetings in the _chaparral_, where she
sang to him by the hour, and then, naturally as the bud opens, their
love? It seemed to him an all-sufficient story, and he could not
understand the long debates.

"And the golden-haired woman," Miss Elisabetha had said; "she sang to
you too, Theodore."

"I had forgotten her, aunt," replied the youth simply.

So he came but slowly. This time, however, the voice was gentle, and
there was no anger in the waiting eyes. She told him all as he sat
there: the story of his father, who was once her friend, she said with a
little quiver in her voice, the death of the young widowed mother, her
own coming to this far Southern land, and her long labors for him. Then
she drew a picture of the bright future opening before him, and bringing
forth the bag showed him its contents, the savings and earnings of
seventeen years, tied in packages with the contents noted on their
labels. "All is for you, dear child," she said, "for you are still but a
child. Take it and go. I had planned to accompany you, but I give that
up for the present. I will remain and see to the sale of everything
here, and then I will join you--that is, if you wish it, dear. Perhaps
you will enjoy traveling alone, and--and I