From the Hand of Dolorita
seclusion of her boudoir, where several women ministered to her needs. One brushed her wavy black hair until it shone, a second polished her finger-nails, while a third sewed busily on a mysterious combination of spangles and tarlatan. Around her were strewn the morning newspapers, containing accounts of her ovation the night before. The reading of these, just completed, had left Dolorita in a most sunny mood. She received Miss Herrick with Andalusian warmth of manner, beneath which lay a genuine friendliness.
"I know why you are here," she said, with pronounced archness. "It is about your mountain infant. When I have sent for you myself you have been so busy. But for him you can come. Is it not so?"
Miss Herrick smiled back at her appreciatively, and came to the point with business-like directness.
"Yes, I have come about this strayed mountain boy," she admitted good-naturedly. "I want you to send him back to his mother."
Dolorita lit a cigarette and took a long, luxurious puff. She had offered her visitor
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