Her early girlhood seemed dim and far away, dull and lifeless, as if it had not been hers at all, and had no connection with the present.

She saw herself in the past, as she could not see herself now, and the child she remembered seemed not herself but another--a fair-haired girl living in the gloomy old house in Valladolid, with her blind sister and an old maiden cousin of her father's, who had offered to bring up the two and to teach them, being a woman of some learning, and who fulfilled her promise in such a conscientious and austere way as made their lives something of a burden under her strict rule.

But that was all forgotten now, and though she still lived in Valladolid she had probably changed but little in the few years since Dolores had seen her; she was part of the past, a relic of something that had hardly ever had a real existence, and which it was not at all necessary to remember.

There was one great light in the girl's simple existence, it had come all at once, and it was with her still.

There was nothing dim nor dark nor forgotten about the day when she had been presented at court by the Duchess Alvarez, and she had first seen Don John, and he had first seen her and had spoken to her, when he had talked with the Duchess herself.