"
"And you tell me this--you, Maruja--you who warned me against my
hopeless passion for you?"
"Could I foresee this?" she said, passionately; "and are you mad
enough not to see that this very act would have made YOUR suit
intolerable to my relations?"
"Then you did think of my suit, Maruja," he said, grasping her
hand.
"Or any one's suit," she continued, hurriedly, turning away with a
slight increase of color in her cheeks. After a moment's pause,
she added, in a gentler and half-reproachful voice, "Do you think I
have confided my mother's story to you for this purpose only? Is
this the help you proffer?"
"Forgive me, Maruja," said the young officer, earnestly. "I am
selfish, I know--for I love you. But you have not told me yet how
I could help your mother by delivering this letter, which any one
could do."
"Let me finish then," said Maruja. "It is for you to judge what
may be done. Letters have passed between my mother and Dr. West.
My mother is imprudent; I know not what she may have written, or
what she might not write, in confidence. But you understand, they
are not letters to be made public nor to pass into any hands but
hers. They are not to be left to be bandied about by his American
friends; to be commented upon by strangers; to reach the ears of
the Guitierrez. They belong to that grave which lies between the
Past and my mother; they must not rise from it to haunt her."
"I understand," said the young officer, quietly.
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