"I am,—and something more. You seem to forget that. Do you mean to answer my question?"

"Certainly,—if I can. But do sit down, Sir Penthony. I am sure you must be tired, you are so dreadfully out of breath. Have you come just now, this moment, straight from Algiers? See, that little chair over there is so comfortable. All my gentlemen visitors adore that little chair. No? You won't sit down? Well——"

"Are you in the habit of receiving men so early?"

"I assure you," says Cecil, raising her brows with a gentle air of martyrdom, and making a very melancholy gesture with one hand, "I hardly know the hour I don't receive them. I am absolutely persecuted by my friends. They will come. No matter how disagreeable it may be to me, they arrive just at any hour that best suits them. And I am so good-natured I cannot bring myself to say 'Not at home.'"

"You brought yourself to say it this morning."

"Ah, yes. But that was because I was engaged on very particular business."

"What business?"

"I am sorry I cannot tell you."

"You shall, Cecil. I will not leave this house until I get an answer. I am your husband. I have the right to demand it."

"You forget our little arrangement. I acknowledge no husband," says Cecil, with just one flash from her violet eyes.

"Do you refuse to answer me?"

"I do," replies she, emphatically.

"Then I shall stay here until you alter your mind," says Sir Penthony, with an air of determination, settling himself with what in a low class of men would have been a bang, in the largest arm-chair the room contains.

With an unmoved countenance Lady Stafford rises and rings the bell.

Dead silence.

Then the door opens, and a rather elderly servant appears upon the threshold.

"Martin, Sir Penthony will lunch here," says Cecil, calmly. "And—stay, Martin. Do you think it likely you will dine, Sir Penthony?"

"I do think it likely," replies he, with as much grimness as etiquette will permit before the servant.

"Sir Penthony thinks it likely he will dine, Martin. Let cook know. And—can I order you anything you would specially prefer?"

"Thank you, nothing. Pray give yourself no trouble on my account."

"It would be a pleasure,—the more so that it is so rare. Stay yet a moment, Martin. May I order you a bed, Sir Penthony?"

"I am not sure. I will let you know later on," replies Stafford, who, to his rage and disgust, finds himself inwardly convulsed with laughter.

"That will do, Martin," says her ladyship, with the utmost bonhommie. And Martin retires.

As the door closes, the combatants regard each other steadily for a full minute, and then they both roar.

"You are the greatest little wretch," says Sir Penthony, going over to her and taking both her hands, "it has ever been my misfortune to meet with. I am laughing now against my will,—remember that. I am in a frantic rage. Will you tell me what all that scene between you and Luttrell was about? If you don't I shall go straight and ask him."

"What! And leave me here to work my wicked will? Reflect—reflect. I thought you were going to mount guard here all day. Think on all the sins I shall be committing in your absence."

She has left her hands in his all this time, and is regarding him with a gay smile, under which she hardly hides a good deal of offended pride.

"Don't be rash, I pray you," she says, with a gleam of malice.

"The man who said pretty women were at heart the kindest lied," says Sir Penthony, standing over her, tall, and young, and very nearly handsome. "You know I am in misery all this time, and that a word from you would relieve me,—yet you will not speak it."

"Would you"—very gravely—"credit the word of such a sinner as you would make me out to be?"

"A sinner! Surely I have never called you that."

"You would call me anything when you get into one of those horrid passions. Come, are you sorry?"

"I am more than sorry. I confess myself a brute if I ever even hinted at such a word,—which I doubt. The most I feared was your imprudence."

"From all I can gather, that means quite the same thing when said of a woman."

"Well, I don't mean it as the same. And, to prove my words, if you will only grant me forgiveness, I will not even mention Tedcastle's name again."

"But I insist on telling you every word he said to me, and all about it."

"If you had insisted on that half an hour ago you would have saved thirty minutes," says Stafford, laughing.

"Then I would not gratify you; now—Tedcastle came here, poor fellow, in a wretched state about Molly Massereene, whose secret he has at length discovered. About eleven o'clock last night he rushed in here almost distracted to get her address; so I went to Molly early this morning, obtained leave to give it,—and a love-letter as well, which you saw me deliver,—and all his raptures and tender epithets were meant for her, and not for me. Is it not a humiliating confession? Even when he kissed my hands it was only in gratitude, and his heart was full of Molly all the time."

"Then it was not you he was to meet alone?"—eagerly.

"What! Still suspicious? No, sir, it was not your wife he was to meet 'alone,' Now, are you properly abashed? Are you satisfied?"

"I am, and deeply contrite. Yet, Cecil, you must know what it is causes me such intolerable jealousy, and, knowing, you should pardon. My love for you only increases day by day. Tell me again I am forgiven."

"Yes, quite forgiven."

"And"—stealing his arm gently round her—"are you in the smallest degree glad to see me again?"

"In a degree,—yes." Raising to his, two eyes, full of something more than common gladness.

"Really?"

"Really."

He looks at her, but she refuses to understand his appealing expression, and regards him calmly in return.

"Cecil, how cold you are!" he says, reproachfully. "Think how long I have been away from you, and what a journey I have come."

"True; you must be hungry." With willful ignorance of his meaning.

"I am not." Indignantly. "But I think you might—after three weary months, that to me, at least, were twelve—you might——"

"You want me to—kiss you?" says Cecil, promptly, but with a rising blush. "Well, I will, then."

Lifting her head, she presses her lips to his with a fervor that takes him utterly by surprise.

"Cecil," whispers he, growing a little pale, "do you mean it?"

"Mean what?" Coloring crimson now, but laughing also. "I mean this: if we don't go down-stairs soon luncheon will be cold. And, remember, I hold you to your engagement. You dine with me to-day. Is not that so?"

"You know how glad I shall be."

"Well, I hope now," says Cecil, "you intend to reform, and give up traveling aimlessly all over the unknown world at stated intervals. I hope for the future you mean staying at home like a respectable Christian."

"If I had a home. You can't call one's club a home, can you? I would stay anywhere,—with you."

"I could not possibly undertake such a responsibility. Still, I should like you to remain in London, where I could look after you a little bit now and then, and keep you in order. I adore keeping people in order. I am thrown away," says Cecil, shaking her flaxen head sadly. "I know I was born to rule."

"You do a great deal of it even in your own limited sphere, don't you?" says her husband, laughing. "I know at least one unfortunate individual who is completely under your control."

"No. I am dreadfully cramped. But come; in spite of all the joy I naturally feel at your safe return, I find my appetite unimpaired. Luncheon is ready. Follow me, my friend. I pine for a cutlet."

They eat their cutlets tete-a-tete, and with evident appreciation of their merits; the servants regarding the performance with intense though silent admiration. In their opinion (and who shall dispute the accuracy of a servant's opinion?), this is the beginning of the end.

When luncheon is over, Lady Stafford rises.

"I am going for my drive," she says. "But what is to become of you until dinner-hour?"

"I shall accompany you." Audaciously.

"You! What! To have all London laughing at me?"

"Let them. A laugh will do them good, and you no harm. How can it matter to you?"

"True. It cannot. And after all to be laughed at one must be talked about. And to be talked about means to create a sensation. And I should like to create a sensation before I die. Yes, Sir Penthony,"—with a determined air,—"you shall have a seat in my carriage to-day."

"And how about to-morrow?"

"To-morrow probably some other fair lady will take pity on you. It would be much too slow,"—mischievously—"to expect you to go driving with your wife every day."

"I don't think I can see it in that light. Cecil,"—coming to her side, and with a sudden though gentle boldness, taking her in his arms,—"when are you going to forgive me and take me to your heart?"

"What is it you want, you tiresome man?" asks Cecil, with a miserable attempt at a frown.

"Your love," replies he, kissing the weak-minded little pucker off her forehead and the pretended pout from her lips, without this time saying, "by your leave," or "with your leave."

"And when you have it, what then?"

"I shall be the happiest man alive."

"Then be the happiest man alive," murmurs she, with tears in her eyes, although the smile still lingers round her lips.

It is thus she gives in.

"And when," asks Stafford, half an hour later, all the retrospective confessions and disclosures having taken some time to get through,—"when shall I install a mistress in the capacious but exceedingly gloomy abode my ancestors so unkindly left to me?"

"Do not even think of such a thing for ever so long. Perhaps next summer I may——"

"Oh, nonsense! Why not say this time ten years?"

"But at present my thoughts are full of my dear Molly. Ah! when shall I see her as happy as—as—I am?"

Here Sir Penthony, moved by a sense of duty and a knowledge of the fitness of things, instantly kisses her again.

He has barely performed this necessary act when the redoubtable Charles puts his head in at the door and says:

"The carriage is waiting, my lady."

"Very good," returns Lady Stafford, who, according to Charles's version of the affair, a few hours later, is as "red as a peony." "You will stay here, Penthony,"—murmuring his name with a grace and a sweet hesitation quite irresistible,—"while I go and make ready for our drive."



CHAPTER XXXV.

"When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary day turn'd to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee."

—Shelley.

In her own small chamber, with all her pretty hair falling loosely round her, stands Molly before her glass, a smile upon her lips. For is not her lover to be with her in two short hours? Already, perhaps, he is on his way to her, as anxious, as eager to fold her in his arms as she will be to fly to them.

A sweet agitation possesses her. Her every thought is fraught with joy; and if at times a misgiving, a suspicion of the hopelessness of it all, comes as a shadow between her and the sun of her content (for is not her marriage with Luttrell a thing as remote now as when they parted?), she puts it from her and refuses to acknowledge a single flaw in this one day's happiness.

She brushes out her long hair, rolling it into its usual soft knot behind, and weaves a kiss or two and a few tender words into each rich coil. She dons her prettiest gown, and puts on all the bravery she possesses, to make herself more fair in the eyes of her beloved, lest by any means he should think her less worthy of regard than when last he saw her.

With a final, almost dissatisfied, glance at the mirror she goes down-stairs to await his coming, all her heart one glad song.

She tries to work to while away the time, but her usually clever fingers refuse their task, and the canvas falls unheeded to the floor.

She tries to read; but, alas! all the words grow together and form themselves into one short sentence: "He is coming—coming—coming."

Insensibly Tennyson's words come to her, and, closing her eyes, she repeats them softly to herself:

"O days and hours, your work is this, To hold me from my proper place A little while from his embrace, For fuller gain of after-bliss.

* * *

"That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet, And unto meeting, when we meet, Delight a hundredfold accrue!"

At length the well-known step is heard upon the stairs, the well-known voice, that sends a very pang of joy through every pulse in her body, sounds eagerly through the house. His hand is on the door.

With a sudden trembling she says to herself:

"I will be calm. He must not know how dearly he is loved."

And then the door opens. He is before her. A host of recollections, sweet and bitter, rise with his presence; and, forgetful of her determination to be calm and dignified as well for his sake as her own, she lets the woman triumph, and, with a little cry, sad from the longing and despair of it, she runs forward and throws herself, with a sob, into his expectant arms.

At first they do not speak. He does not even kiss her, only holds her closely in his embrace, as one holds some precious thing, some priceless possession that, once lost, has been regained.

Then they do kiss each other, gravely, tenderly, with a gentle lingering.

"It is indeed you," she says, at last, regarding him wistfully with a certain pride of possession, he looks so tall, and strong, and handsome in her eyes. She examines him critically, and yet finds nothing wanting. He is to her perfection, as, indeed (unhappily), a man always is to the woman who loves him. Could she at this moment concentrate her thoughts, I think she would apply to him all the charms contained in the following lines:

"A mouth for mastery and manful work; A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes; A brow the harbor of fair thought, and hair Saxon in hue."

"You are just the same as ever," she says, presently, "only taller, I really think, and broader and bigger altogether." Then, in a little soft whisper, "My dear,—my darling."

"And you," he says, taking the sweet face he has so hungered for between his hands, the better to mark each change time may have wrought, "you have grown thinner. You are paler. Darling,"—a heavy shadow falling across his face,—"you are well,—quite well?"

"Perfectly," she answers, lightly, pleased at his uneasiness. "Town life—the city air—has whitened me; that is all."

"But these hollows?" Touching gently her soft cheeks with a dissatisfied air. They are a little sunk. She is altogether thinner, frailer than of yore. Her very fingers as they lie in his look slenderer, more fragile.

"Perhaps a little fretting has done it," she answers, with a smile and a half-suppressed sigh.

He echoes the sigh; and it may be a few tears for all the long hours spent apart gather in their eyes, "in thinking of the days that are no more."

Presently, when they are calmer, more forgetful of their separation, they seat themselves upon a sofa and fall into a happy silence. His arm is round her; her hand rests in his.

"Of what are you thinking, sweetheart?" he asks, after a while, stooping to meet her gaze.

"A happy thought," she answers. "I am realizing how good a thing it is 'to feel the arms of my true love round me once again.'"

"And yet it was of your own free will they were ever loosened."

"Of my free will?" Reproachfully. "No; no." Then, turning away from him, she says, in a low tone, "What did you think when you saw me singing last night?"

"That I had never seen you look so lovely in my life."

"I don't mean that, Teddy. What did you think when you saw me singing—so?"

"I wished I was a millionaire, that I might on the instant rescue you from such a life," replies he, with much emotion.

"Ah! you felt like that? I, too, was unhappy. For the first time since I began my new life it occurred to me to be ashamed. To know that you saw me reminded me that others saw me too, and the knowledge brought a flush to my cheek. I am singing again on Tuesday; but you must not come to hear me. I could not sing before you again."

"Of course I will not, if it distresses you. May I meet you outside and accompany you home?"

"Better not. People talk so much; and—there is always such a crowd outside that door."

"The nights you sing. Have you had any lovers, Molly?" asks he, abruptly, with a visible effort.

"Several,"—smiling at his perturbation,—"and two bona fide proposals. I might have been the blushing bride of a baronet now had I so chosen."

"Was he—rich?"

"Fabulously so, I was told. And I am sure he was comfortably provided for, though I never heard the exact amount of his rent-roll."

"Why did you refuse him?" asks Luttrell, moodily, his eyes fixed upon the ground.

"I shall leave you to answer that question," replies she, with all her old archness. "I cannot. Perhaps because I didn't care for him. Not but what he was a nice old gentleman, and wonderfully preserved. I met him at one of Cecil's 'at homes,' and he professed himself deeply enamored of me. I might also have been the wife of a very young gentleman in the Foreign Office, with a most promising moustache; but I thought of you,"—laughing, and giving his hand a little squeeze,—"and I bestowed upon him such an emphatic 'No' as turned his love to loathing."

"To-morrow or next day you may have a marquis at your feet, or some other tremendous swell—and——"

"Or one of our own princes. I see nothing to prevent it," says Molly, still laughing. "Nonsense, Teddy; don't be an old goose. You should know by this time how it is with me."

"I am a selfish fellow, am I not?" says Luttrell, wistfully. "The very thought that any one wants to take you from me renders me perfectly miserable. And yet I know I ought to give you up,—to—to encourage you to accept an offer that would place you in a position I shall never be able to give you. But I cannot. Molly, I have come all this way to ask you again to marry me, and——"

"Hush, Teddy. You know it is impossible."

"Why is it impossible? Other people have lived and been happy on five hundred pounds a year. And after a while something might turn up to enable us to help Letitia and the children."

"You are a little selfish now," she says, with gentle reproach. "I could not let Letitia be without my help for even a short time. And would you like your wife to sing in public, for money? Look at it in that light, and answer me truly."

"No," without hesitation. "Not that your singing in public lowers you in the faintest degree in any one's estimation; but I would not let my wife support herself. I could not endure the thought. But might not I——"

"You might not,"—raising her eyes,—"nor would I let you. I work for those I love, and in that no one can help me."

"Are both our lives, then, to be sacrificed?"

"I will not call it a sacrifice on my part," says the girl, bravely, although tears are heavy in her voice and eyes. "I am only doing some little thing for him who did all for me. There is a joy that is almost sacred in the thought. It has taken from me the terrible sting of his death. To know I can still please him, can work for him, brings him back to me from the other world. At times I lose the sense of farness, and can feel him almost near."

"You are too good for me," says the young man, humbly, taking her hands and kissing them twice.

"I am not. You must not say so," says Molly, hastily, the touch of his lips weakening her.

Two large tears that have been slowly gathering roll down her cheeks.

"Oh, Teddy!" cries she, suddenly, covering her face with her hands, "at times, when I see certain flowers or hear some music connected with the olden days, my heart dies within me,—I lose all hope; and then I miss you sorely,—sorely."

Her head is on his breast by this time; his strong young arms are round her, holding her as though they would forever shield her from the pains and griefs of this world.

"I have felt just like you," he says, simply. "But after all, whatever comes, we have each other. There should be comfort in that. Had death robbed us—you of me or me of you—then we might indeed mourn. But as it is there is always hope. Can you not try to find consolation in the thought that, no matter where I may be, however far away, I am your lover forever?"

"I know it," says Molly, inexpressibly comforted.

Their trust is of the sweetest and fullest. No cruel coldness has crept in to defile their perfect love. Living as they are on a mere shadow, a faint streak of hope, that may never break into a fuller gleam, they still are almost happy. He loves her. Her heart is all his own. These are their crumbs of comfort,—sweet fragments that never fail them.

Now he leads her away from the luckless subject of their engagement altogether, and presently she is laughing over some nonsensical tale he is telling her connected with the old life. She is asking him questions, and he is telling her all he knows.

Philip has been abroad—no one knows where—for months; but suddenly, and just as mysteriously as he departed, he turned up a few days ago at Herst, where the old man is slowly fading. The winter has been a severe one, and they think his days are numbered.

The Darleys have at last come to an open rupture, and a friendly separation is being arranged.

"And what of my dear friend, Mr. Potts?" asks Molly.

"Oh, Potts! I left him behind me in Dublin. He is uncommonly well, and has been all the winter pottering—by the bye, that is an appropriate word, isn't it?—reminds one of one of his own jokes—after a girl who rather fancies him, in spite of his crimson locks, or perhaps because of them. That particular shade is, happily, rare. She has a little money, too,—at least enough to make her an heiress in Ireland."

"Poor Ireland!" says Molly. "Some day perhaps I shall go there, and judge of its eccentricities myself."

"By the bye, Molly," says Luttrell, with an impromptu air, "did you ever see the Tower?"

"Never, I am ashamed to say."

"I share your sentiments. Never have I planted my foot upon so much as the lowest step of its interminable stairs. I feel keenly the disgrace of such an acknowledgment. Shall we let another hour pass without retrieving our false position? A thousand times 'no.' Go and put your bonnet on, Molly, and we will make a day of it."

And they do make a day of it, and are as foolishly, thoughtlessly, unutterably happy as youth and love combined can be in the very face of life's disappointments.

* * * * *

The first flush of her joy on meeting Luttrell being over, Molly grows once more depressed and melancholy.

Misfortune has so far subdued her that now she looks upon her future, not with the glad and hopeful eyes of old, but through a tearful mist, while dwelling with a sad uncertainty upon its probable results.

When in the presence of her lover she rises out of herself, and for the time being forgets, or appears to forget, her troubles; but when away from him she grows moody and unhappy.

Could she see but a chance of ever being able to alter her present mode of life—before youth and hope are over—she would perhaps take her courage by both hands and compel it to remain. But no such chance presents itself.

To forsake Letitia is to leave her and the children to starve. For how could Luttrell support them all on a miserable pittance of five hundred pounds a year? The idea is preposterous. It is the same old story over again; the same now as it was four months ago, without alteration or improvement; and, as she tells herself, will be the same four years hence.

Whatever Luttrell himself may think upon the subject he keeps within his breast, and for the first week of his stay is apparently supremely happy.

Occasionally he speaks as though their marriage is a thing that sooner or later must be consummated, and will not see that when he does so Molly maintains either a dead silence or makes some disheartening remark.

At last she can bear it no longer; and one day toward the close of his "leave," when his sentiments appear to be particularly sanguine, she makes up her mind to compel him to accept a release from what must be an interminable waiting.

"How can we go on like this," she says, bursting into tears, "you forever entreating, I forever denying? It breaks my heart, and is unfair to you. Our engagement must end. It is for your sake I speak."

"You are too kind. Will you not let me judge what is best for my own happiness?"

"No; because you are mad on this one matter."

"You wish to release me from my promise?"

"I do. For your own good."

"Then I will not be released. Because freedom would not lead to the desired result."

"It would. It must. It is useless our going on so. I can never marry. You see yourself I cannot. If you were rich, or if I were rich, why, then——"

"If you were I would not marry you, in all probability."

"And why? Should I not be the same Molly then?" With a wan little smile. "Well, if you were rich I would marry you gladly, because I know your love for me is so great you would not feel my dear ones a burden. But as it is—yes—yes—we must part."

"You can speak of it with admirable coolness," says he, rather savagely. "After all, at the best of times your love for me was lukewarm."

"Was it?" she says, and turns away from him hurt and offended.

"Is my love the thing of an hour," he goes on, angry with her and with himself in that he has displeased her, "that you should talk of the good to be derived from the sundering of our engagement? I wish to know what it is you mean. Do you want to leave yourself free to marry a richer man?"

"How you misjudge me?" she says, shrinking as if from a blow. "I shall never marry. All I want to do is to leave you free to"—with a sob—"to—choose whom you may."

"Very good. If it pleases you to think I am free, as you call it, be it so. Our engagement is at an end. I may marry my mother's cook to-morrow morning, if it so pleases me, without a dishonorable feeling. Is that what you want? Are you satisfied now?"

"Yes." But she is crying bitterly as she says it.

"And do you think, my sweet," whispers he, folding her in his arms, "that all this nonsense can take your image from my heart, or blot out the remembrance of all your gentle ways? For my part, I doubt it. Come, why don't you smile? You have everything your own way now; you should, therefore, be in exuberant spirits. You may be on the lookout for an elderly merchant prince; I for the dusky heiress of a Southern planter. But I warn you, Molly, you shan't insist upon my marrying her, unless I like her better than you."

"You accept the words, but not the spirit, of my proposition," she says, sadly.

"Because it is a spiritless proposition altogether, without grace or meaning. Come, now, don't martyr yourself any more. I am free, and you are free, and we can go on loving each other all the same. It isn't half a bad arrangement, and so soothing to the conscience! I always had a remorseful feeling that I was keeping you from wedding with a duke, or a city magnate, or an archbishop. In the meantime I suppose I may be allowed to visit your Highness (in anticipation) daily, as usual?"

"I suppose so." With hesitation.

"I wonder you didn't say no, you hard-hearted child. Not that it would have made the slightest difference, as I should have come whether you liked it or not. And now come out—do; the sun is shining, and will melt away this severe attack of the blues. Let us go into the Park and watch for our future prey,—you for your palsied millionaire, I for my swarthy West Indian."



CHAPTER XXXVI.

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud."

—Idylls of the King.

The very next morning brings Molly the news of her grandfather's death. He had died quietly in his chair the day before without a sign, and without one near him. As he had lived, so had he died—alone.

The news conveyed by Mr. Buscarlet shocks Molly greatly, and causes her, if not actual sorrow, at least a keen regret. To have him die thus, without reconciliation or one word of forgiveness,—to have him go from this world to the next, hard of heart and unrelenting, saddens her for his soul's sake.

The funeral is to be on Thursday, and this is Tuesday. So Mr. Buscarlet writes, and adds that, by express desire of Mr. Amherst, the will is to be opened and read immediately after the funeral before all those who spent last autumn in his house. "Your presence," writes the attorney, "is particularly desired."

In the afternoon Lady Stafford drops in, laden, as usual, with golden grain (like the Argosy), in the shape of cakes and sweetmeats for the children, who look upon her with much reverence in the light of a modern and much-improved Santa Claus.

"I see you have heard of your grandfather's death by your face," she says, gravely. "Here, children,"—throwing them their several packages,—"take your property and run away while I have a chat with mamma and Auntie Molly."

"Teddy brought us such nice sugar cigars yesterday," says Renee, who, in her black frock and white pinafore and golden locks, looks perfectly angelic: "only I was sorry they weren't real; the fire at the end didn't burn one bit."

"How do you know?"

"Because"—with an enchanting smile—"I put it on Daisy's hand, to see if it would, and it wouldn't; and wasn't it a pity?"

"It was, indeed. I am sure Daisy sympathizes with your grief. There, go away, you blood-thirsty child; we are very busy."

While the children, in some remote corner of the house, are growing gradually happier and stickier, their elders discuss the last new topic.

"I received a letter this morning," Cecil says, "summoning me to Herst, to hear the will read. You, too, I suppose?"

"Yes; though why I don't know."

"I am sure he has left you something. You are his grandchild. It would be unkind of him and most unjust to leave you out altogether, once having acknowledged you."

"You forget our estrangement."

"Nevertheless, something tells me there is a legacy in store for you. I shall go down to-morrow night, and you had better come with me."

"Very well," says Molly, indifferently.

At Herst, in spite of howling winds and drenching showers, Nature is spreading abroad in haste its countless charms. Earth, struggling disdainfully with its worn-out garb, is striving to change its brown garment for one of dazzling green. Violets, primroses, all the myriad joys of spring, are sweetening the air with a thousand perfumes.

Within the house everything is subdued and hushed, as must be when the master lies low. The servants walk on tiptoe; the common smile is checked; conversation dwindles into compressed whispers, as though they fear by ordinary noise to bring to life again the unloved departed. All is gloom and insincere melancholy.

Cecil and Molly, traveling down together, find Mrs. Darley, minus her husband, has arrived before them. She is as delicately afflicted, as properly distressed, as might be expected; indeed, so faithfully, and with such perfect belief in her own powers, does she perform the pensive role, that she fails not to create real admiration in the hearts of her beholders. Molly is especially struck, and knows some natural regret that it is beyond her either to feel or look the part.

Marcia, thinking it wisdom to keep herself invisible, maintains a strict seclusion. The hour of her triumph approaches; she hardly dares let others see the irrepressible exultation that her own heart knows.

Philip has been absent since the morning; so Molly and Lady Stafford dine in the latter's old sitting-room alone, and, confessing as the hours grow late to an unmistakable dread of the "uncanny," sleep together, with a view to self-support.

* * * * *

About one o'clock next day all is over. Mr. Amherst has been consigned to his last resting-place,—a tomb unstained by any tears. At three the will is to be read.

Coming out of her room in the early part of the afternoon, Cecil meets unexpectedly with Mr. Potts, who is meandering in a depressed and aimless fashion all over the house.

"You here, Plantagenet! Why, I thought you married to some fascinating damsel in the Emerald Isle," she cannot help saying in a low voice, giving him her hand. She is glad to see his ugly, good-humored, comical face in the gloomy house, although it is surmounted by his offending hair.

"So I was,—very near it," replies he, modestly, in the same suppressed whisper. "You never knew such a narrow escape as I had: they were determined to marry me——"

"'They'! You terrify me. How many of them? I had no idea they were so bad as that,—even in Ireland."

"Oh, I mean the girl and her father. It was as near a thing as possible; in fact, it took me all I knew to get out of it."

"I'm not surprised at that," says Cecil, with a short but comprehensive glance at her companion's cheerful but rather indistinct features.

"I don't exactly mean it was my personal appearance was the attraction," he returns, feeling a strong inclination to explode with laughter, as is his habit on all occasions, but quickly suppressing the desire, as being wicked under the circumstances. The horror of death has not yet vanished from among them. "It was my family they were after,—birth, you know,—and that. Fact is, she wasn't up to the mark,—wasn't good enough. Not but that she was a nice-looking girl, and had a lovely brogue. She had money too—and she had a—father! Such a father! I think I could have stood the brogue, but I could not stand the father."

"But why? Was he a lunatic? Or perhaps a Home-ruler?"

"No,"—simply,—"he was a tailor. When first I met Miss O'Rourke she told me her paternal relative had some appointment in the Castle. So he had. In his youthful days he had been appointed tailor to his Excellency. It wasn't a bad appointment, I dare say; but I confess I didn't see it."

"It was a lucky escape. It would take a good deal of money to make me forget the broadcloth. Are you coming down-stairs now? I dare say we ought to be assembling."

"It is rather too early, I am afraid. I wish it was all done with, and I a hundred miles away from the place. The whole affair has made me downright melancholy. I hate funerals: they don't agree with me."

"Nor yet weddings, as it seems. Well, I shall be as glad as you to quit Herst once we have installed Miss Amherst as its mistress."

"Why not Shadwell as its master?"

"If I were a horrible betting-man," says Cecil, "I should put all my money upon Marcia. I do not think Mr. Amherst cared for Philip. However, we shall see. And"—in a yet lower tone—"I hope he has not altogether forgotten Molly."

"I hope not indeed. But he was a strange old man. To forget Miss Massereene——" Here he breathes a profound sigh.

"Don't sigh, Plantagenet: think of Miss O'Rourke," says Cecil, unkindly, leaving him.

* * * * *

One by one, and without so much as an ordinary "How d'ye do?" they have all slipped into the dining-room. The men have assumed a morose air, which they fondly believe to be indicative of melancholy; the women, being by nature more hypocritical, present a more natural and suitable appearance. All are seated in sombre garments and dead silence.

Marcia, in crape and silk of elaborate design, is looking calm but full of decorous grief. Philip—who has grown almost emaciated during these past months—is the only one who wears successfully an impression of the most stolid indifference. He is leaning against one of the windows, gazing out upon the rich lands and wooded fields which so soon will be either all his or nothing to him. After the first swift glance of recognition he has taken no notice of Molly, nor she of him. A shuddering aversion fills her toward him, a distaste bordering on horror. His very pallor, the ill-disguised misery of his whole appearance,—which he seeks but vainly to conceal under a cold and sneering exterior,—only adds to her dislike.

A sickening remembrance of their last meeting in the wood at Brooklyn makes her turn away from him with palpable meaning on his entrance, adding thereby one pang the more to the bitterness of his regret. The meeting is to her a trial,—to him an agony harder to endure than he had even imagined.

Feeling strangely out of place and nervous, and saddened by memories of happy days spent in this very room so short a time ago, Molly has taken a seat a little apart from the rest, and sits with loosely-folded hands upon her knees, her head bent slightly downward.

Cecil, seeing the dejection of her attitude, leaves her own place, and, drawing a chair close to hers, takes one of her hands softly between her own.

Then the door opens, and Mr. Buscarlet, with a sufficiently subdued though rather triumphant and consequential air, enters.

He bows obsequiously to Marcia, who barely returns the salute. Detestable little man! She finds some consolation in the thought that at all events his time is nearly over; that probably—nay, surely—he is now about to administer law for the last time at Herst.

He bows in silence to the rest of the company,—with marked deference to Miss Massereene,—and then involuntarily each one stirs in his or her seat and settles down to hear the will read.

A will is a mighty thing, and requires nice handling. Would that I were lawyer enough to give you this particular one in full, with all its many bequests and curious directions. But, alas! ignorance forbids. The sense lingers with me, but all the technicalities and running phrases and idiotic repetitions have escaped me.

To most of those present Mr. Amherst has left bequests; to Lady Stafford five thousand pounds; to Plantagenet Potts two thousand pounds; to Mrs. Darley's son the same; to all the servants handsome sums of money, together with a year's wages; to Mrs. Nesbit, the housekeeper, two hundred pounds a year for her life. And then the attorney pauses and assumes an important air, and every one knows the end is nigh.

All the rest of his property of which he died possessed—all the houses, lands, and moneys—all personal effects—"I give and bequeath to——"

Here Mr. Buscarlet, either purposely or otherwise, stops short to cough and blow a sonorous note upon his nose. All eyes are fixed upon him; some, even more curious or eager than the others, are leaning forward in their chairs. Even Philip has turned from the window and is waiting breathlessly.

"To my beloved grandchild, Eleanor Massereene!"

Not a sound follows this announcement, not a movement. Then Marcia half rises from her seat; and Mr. Buscarlet, putting up his hand, says, hurriedly, "There is a codicil," and every one prepares once more to listen.

But the codicil produces small effect. The old man at the last moment evidently relented so far in his matchless severity as to leave Marcia Amherst ten thousand pounds (and a sealed envelope, which Mr. Buscarlet hands her), on the condition that she lives out of England; and to Philip Shadwell ten thousand pounds more,—and another sealed envelope,—which the attorney also delivers on the spot.

As the reading ceases, another silence, even more profound than the first, falls upon the listeners. No one speaks, no one so much as glances at the other.

Marcia, ghastly, rigid, rises from her seat.

"It is false," she says, in a clear, impassioned tone. "It is the will of an imbecile,—a madman. It shall not be." She has lost all self-restraint, and is trembling with fear and rage and a terrible certainty of defeat.

"Pardon me, Miss Amherst," says Mr. Buscarlet, courteously, "but I fear you will find it unwise to lay any stress on such a thought. To dispute this will would be madness indeed: all the world knows my old friend, your grandfather, died in perfect possession of his senses, and this will was signed three months ago."

"You drew up this will, sir?" she asks in a low tone, only intended for him, drawing closer to him.

"Certainly I did, madam."

"And during all these past months understood thoroughly how matters would be?"

"Certainly, madam."

"And knowing, continued still—with a view to deceive me—to treat me as the future mistress of Herst?"

"I trust, madam, I always treated you with proper respect. You would not surely have had me as rude to you as you invariably were to me? I may not be a gentleman, Miss Amherst, in your acceptation of that term, but I make it a rule never to be—offensive."

"It was a low—a mean revenge," says Marcia, through her teeth, her eyes aflame, her lips colorless; "one worthy of you. I understand you, sir; but do not for an instant think you have crushed me." Raising her head haughtily, she sweeps past him back to her original seat.

Molly has risen to her feet. She is very pale and faint; her eyes, large and terrified, like a fawn's, are fixed, oddly enough, upon Philip. The news has been too sudden, too unexpected, to cause her even the smallest joy as yet. On the contrary, she knows only pity for him who, but a few minutes before, she was reviling in her thoughts. Perhaps the sweetness of her sympathy is the one thing that could have consoled Philip just then.

"'Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness,'" he says, with a little sneering laugh, shrugging his shoulders. Then, rousing himself, he draws a long breath, and goes straight up to Molly.

"Permit me to congratulate you," he says, with wonderful grace, considering all things. He is standing before her, with his handsome head well up, a certain pride of birth about him, strong enough to carry him successfully through this great and lasting disaster. "It is, after all, only natural that of the three you should inherit. Surprise should lie in the fact that never did such a possibility occur to us. We might have known that even our grandfather's worn and stony heart could not be proof against such grace and sweetness as yours."

He bows over her hand courteously, and, turning away, walks back again to the window, standing with his face hidden from them all.

Never has he appeared to such advantage. Never has he been so thoroughly liked as at this moment. Molly moves as though she would go to him; but Cecil, laying her hand upon her arm, wisely restrains her. What can be said to comfort him, who has lost home, and love, and all?

"It is all a mistake; it cannot be true," says Molly, piteously. "It is a mistake." She looks appealingly at Cecil, who, wise woman that she is, only presses her arm again meaningly, and keeps a discreet silence. To express her joy at the turn events have taken at this time would be gross; though not to express it goes hard with Cecil. She contents herself with glancing expressively at Sir Penthony every now and then, who is standing at the other end of the room.

"I also congratulate you," says Luttrell, coming forward, and speaking for the first time. He is not nearly so composed as Shadwell, and his voice has a strange and stilted sound. He speaks so that Molly and Cecil alone can hear him, delicacy forbidding any open expression of pleasure. "With all my heart," he adds; but his tone is strange. The whole speech is evidently a lie. His eyes meet hers with an expression in them she has never seen there before,—so carefully cold it is, so studiously unloving.

Molly is too agitated to speak to him, but she lifts her head, and shows him a face full of the keenest reproach. Her pleading look, however, is thrown away, as he refuses resolutely to meet her gaze. With an abrupt movement he turns away and leaves the room, and, as they afterward discover, the house.

Meantime, Marcia has torn open her envelope, and read its enclosure. A blotted sheet half covered with her own writing,—the very letter begun and lost in the library last October; that, being found, has condemned her. With a half-stifled groan she lets it flutter to the ground, where it lies humbled in the dust, an emblem of all her falsely-cherished hopes.

Philip, too, having examined his packet, has brought to light that fatal letter of last summer that has so fully convicted him of unlawful dealings with Jews. Twice he reads it, slowly, thoughtfully, and then, casting one quick, withering glance at Marcia (under which she cowers), he consigns it to his pocket without a word.

The play is played out. The new mistress of Herst has been carried away by Cecil Stafford to her own room; the others have dispersed. Philip and Marcia Amherst are alone.

Marcia, waking from her reverie, makes a movement as though she, too, would quit the apartment, but Shadwell, coming deliberately up to her, bars her exit. Laying his hand gently but firmly on her wrist, he compels her to both hear and remain.

"You betrayed me?" he says, between his teeth. "You gave this letter"—producing it—"to my grandfather? I trusted you, and you betrayed me."

"I did," she answers, with forced calmness.

"Why?"

"Because—I loved you."

"You!" with a harsh grating laugh. It is with difficulty he restrains his passion. "You to love! And is it by ruining those upon whom you bestow your priceless affection you show the depth of your devotion? Pah! Tell me the truth. Did you want all, and have you been justly punished?"

"I have told you the truth," she answers, vehemently. "I was mad enough to love you even then, when I saw against my will your wild infatuation for that designing——"

"Hush!" he interrupts her, imperiously, in a low, dangerous tone. "If you are speaking of Miss Massereene, I warn you it is unsafe to proceed. Do not mention her. Do not utter her name. I forbid you."

"So be it! Your punishment has been heavier than any I could inflict.—You want to know why I showed that letter to the old man, and I will tell you. I thought, could I but gain all Herst, I might, through it, win you back to my side. I betrayed you for that alone. I debased myself in my own eyes for that sole purpose. I have failed in all things. My humiliation is complete. I do not ask your forgiveness, Philip; I crave only—your forbearance. Grant me that at least, for the old days' sake!"

But he will not. He scarcely heeds her words, so great is the fury that consumes him.

"You would have bought my love!" he says, with a bitter sneer. "Know, then, that with a dozen Hersts at your back, I loathe you too much ever to be more to you than I now am, and that is—nothing."

Quietly but forcibly he puts her from him, and leaves the room. Outside in the hall he encounters Sir Penthony, who has been lingering there with intent to waylay him. However rejoiced Stafford may be at Molly's luck, he is profoundly grieved for Philip.

"I know it is scarcely form to express sympathy on such occasions," he says, with some hesitation, laying his hand on Shadwell's shoulder. "But I must tell you how I regret, for your sake, all that has taken place."

"Thank you, Stafford. You are one of the very few whose sympathy is never oppressive. But do not be uneasy about me," with a short laugh. "I dare say I shall manage to exist. I have five hundred a year of my own, and my grandfather's thoughtfulness has made it a thousand. No doubt I shall keep body and soul together, though there is no disguising the fact that I feel keenly the difference between one thousand and twenty."

"My dear fellow, I am glad to see you take it so well. I don't believe there are a dozen men of my acquaintance who would be capable of showing such pluck as you have done."

"I have always had a fancy for exploring. I shall go abroad and see some life; the sooner the better. I thank you with all my heart, Stafford, for your kindness. I thank you—and"—with a slight break in his voice—"good-bye!"

He presses Stafford's hand warmly, and, before the other can reply, is gone.

Half an hour later, Marcia, sweeping into her room in a torrent of passion impossible to quell, summons her maid by a violent attack on her bell.

"Take off this detested mourning," she says to the astonished girl. "Remove it from my sight. And get me a colored gown and a Bradshaw."

The maid, half frightened, obeys, and that night Marcia Amherst quits her English home forever.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

"Fare thee well! and if forever, Still forever, fare thee well!"

—Byron.

"Oh, Cecil! now I can marry Tedcastle," says Molly, at the end of a long and exhaustive conversation that has taken place in her own room. She blushes a little as she says it; but it is honestly her first thought, and she gives utterance to it. "Letitia, too, and the children,—I can provide for them. I shall buy back dear old Brooklyn, and give it to them, and they shall be happy once more."

"I agree with Lord Byron," says Cecil, laughing. "'Money makes the man; the want of it, his fellow.' You ought to feel like some princess out of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments."

"I feel much more like an intruder. What right have I to Herst? What shall I do with so much money?"

"Spend it. There is nothing simpler. Believe me, no one was ever in reality embarrassed by her riches, notwithstanding all they say. The whole thing is marvelous. Who could have anticipated such an event? I am sorry I ever said anything disparaging of that dear, delightful, genial, kind-hearted, sociable, generous old gentleman, your grandfather."

"Don't jest," says Molly, who is almost hysterical. "I feel more like crying yet. But I am glad at least to know he forgave me before he died. Poor grandpapa! Cecil, I want so much to see Letitia."

"Of course, dear. Well,"—consulting her watch,—"I believe we may as well be getting ready if we mean to catch the next train. Will not it be a charming surprise for Letitia? I quite envy you the telling of it."

"I want you to tell it. I am so nervous I know I shall never get through it without frightening her out of her wits. Do come with me, Cecil, and break the news yourself."

"Nothing I should like better," says Cecil. "Put on your bonnet and let us be off."

Ringing the bell, she orders round the carriage, and presently she and Molly are wending their way down the stairs.

At the very end of the long, beautiful old hall, stands Philip Shadwell, taking, it may be, a last look from the window, of the place so long regarded as his own.

As they see him, both girls pause, and Molly's lips lose something of their fresh, warm color.

"Go and speak to him now," says Cecil, and, considerately remembering a hypothetical handkerchief, retraces her steps to the room she had just quitted.

"Philip!" says Molly, timidly, going up to him.

He turns with a start, and colors a dark red on seeing her, but neither moves nor offers greeting.

"Oh, Philip! let me do something for you," says Molly impulsively, without preparation, and with tears in her eyes. "I have robbed you, though unwittingly. Let me make amends. Out of all I have let me give you——"

"The only thing I would take from you it is out of your power to give," he interrupts her, gently.

"Do not say so," she pleads, in trembling tones. "I do not want all the money. I cannot spend it. I do not care for it. Do take some of it, Philip. Let me share——"

"Impossible, child!" with a faint smile. "You don't know what you are saying." Then, with an effort, "You are going to marry Luttrell?"

"Yes,"—blushing, until she looks like a pale, sweet rose with a drooping head.

"How rich to overflowing are some, whilst others starve!" he says, bitterly, gazing at her miserably, filling his heart, his senses, for the last time, with a view of her soft and perfect loveliness. Then, in a kinder tone, "I hope you will be happy, and"—slowly—"he too, though that is a foregone conclusion." He pales a little here, and stops as though half choking. "Yes, he has my best wishes,—for your sake," he goes on, unsteadily. "Tell him so from me, though we have not been good friends of late."

"I will surely tell him."

"Good-bye!" he says, taking her hand. Something in his expression makes her exclaim, anxiously:

"For the present?"

"No; forever. Herst and England have grown hateful to me. I leave them as soon as possible. Good-bye, my beloved!" he whispers, in deep agitation. "I only ask you not to quite forget me, though I hope—I hope—I shall never look upon your sweet face again."

So he goes, leaving his heart behind him, carrying with him evermore, by land and sea, this only,—the vision of her he loves as last he sees her, weeping sad and bitter tears for him.

* * * * *

A quarter of an hour later, as Molly and Cecil are stepping into the carriage meant to convey them to the station, one of the servants, running up hurriedly, hands Miss Massereene a letter.

"Another?" says Cecil, jestingly, as the carriage starts. "Sealed envelopes, like private bomb-shells, seem to be the order of the day. I do hope this one does not emanate from your grandfather, desiring you to refund everything."

"It is from Tedcastle," says Molly, surprised. Then she opens it, and reads as follows:

"Taking into consideration the enormous change that has occurred in your fortunes since this morning, I feel it only just to you and myself to write and absolve you from all ties by which you may fancy yourself still connected with me. You will remember that in our last conversation together in London you yourself voluntarily decided on severing our engagement. Let your decision now stand. Begin your new life without hampering regrets, without remorseful thoughts of me. To you I hope this money may bring happiness; to me, through you, it has brought lasting pain; and when, a few minutes ago, I said I congratulated you from my heart, I spoke falsely. I say this only to justify my last act in your eyes. I will not tell you what it costs me to write you this; you know me well enough to understand. I shall exchange with a friend of mine, and sail for India in a week or two, or at least as soon as I can; but wherever I am, or whatever further misfortunes may be in store for me, be assured your memory will always be my greatest—possibly my only—treasure."

"What can he mean?" says Molly, looking up. She does not appear grieved; she is simply indignant. An angry crimson flames on her fair cheeks.

"Quixotism!" says Cecil, when she, too, has read the letter. "Was there ever such a silly boy?"

"Oh! it is worse than anything,—so cold, so terse, so stupid. And not an affectionate word all through, or a single regret."

"My dear child, that is its only redeeming point. He is evidently sincere in his desire for martyrdom. Had he gone into heroics I should myself have gone to Ireland (where I suppose he soon must be) to chastise him. But as it is—— Poor Tedcastle! He looks upon it as a point of honor."

"It is unbearable," says Molly, angrily. "Does he think such a paltry thing as money could interfere with my affection for him?"

"Molly, beware! You are bordering on the heroics now. Money is not a paltry thing; it is about the best thing going. I can sympathize with Tedcastle if you cannot. He felt he had no right to claim the promise of such a transcendently beautiful being as you, now you have added to your other charms twenty thousand a year. He thinks of your future; he acknowledges you a bride worthy any duke in the land (men in love"—maliciously—"will dote, you know); he thinks of the world and its opinion, and how fond they are of applying the word 'fortune-hunter' when they get the chance, and it is not a pretty sobriquet."

"He should have thought of nothing but me. Had he come into a fortune," says Molly, severely, "I should have been delighted, and I should have married him instantly."

"Quite so. But who ever heard the opprobrious term 'fortune-hunter' given to a woman? It is the legitimate thing for us to sell ourselves as dearly as we can."

"But, Cecil,"—forlornly,—"what am I to do now?"

"If you will take my advice, nothing,—for two or three weeks. He cannot sail for India before then, and do his best. Preserve an offended silence. Then obtain an interview with him by fair means, or, if not, by foul."

"You unscrupulous creature!" Molly says, smiling; but after a little reflection she determines to abide by her friend's counsel. "Horrible, hateful letter," she says, tearing it up and throwing it out of the window. "I wish I had never read you. I am happier now you are gone."

"So am I. It was villainously worded and very badly written."

"I don't know that," begins Molly, warmly; and then she stops short, and they both laugh. "And you, Cecil—what of you? Am I mistaken in thinking you and Sir Penthony are—are——"

"Yes, we are," says Cecil, smiling and coloring brilliantly. "As you so graphically express it, we actually—are. At present, like you, we are formally engaged."

"Really?"—delighted. "I always knew you loved him. And so you have given in at last?"

"Through sheer exhaustion, and merely with a view to stop further persecution. When a man comes to you day after day, asking you whether you love him yet, ten to one you say yes in the end, whether it be the truth or not. We all know what patience and perseverance can do. But I desire you, Molly, never to lose sight of the fact that I am consenting to be his only to escape his importunities."

"I quite understand. But, dear Cecil, I am so rejoiced."

"Are you, dear?"—provokingly. "And why?—I thought to have a second marriage, if only for the appearance of the thing; but it seems I cannot. So we are going to Kamtschatka, or Bath, or Timbuctoo, or Hong-Kong, or Halifax, for our wedding tour, I really don't know which, and I would not presume to dictate. That is, if I do not change my mind between that and this."

"And when is that?"

"The seventeenth of next month. He wanted to make it the first of April; but I said I was committing folly enough without reminding all the world of it. So he succumbed. I wish, Molly, you could be married on the same day."

"What am I to do with a lover who refuses to take me?" says Molly, with a rueful laugh. "I dare say I shall be an old maid after all."



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

"Why shouldn't I love my love? Why shouldn't he love me? Why shouldn't I love my love, Since love to all is free?"

Three full weeks that, so far as Molly is concerned, have been terribly, wearisomely long, have dragged to their close. Not that they have been spent in idleness; much business has been transacted, many plans fulfilled; but they have been barren of news of her lover.

"In the spring a young man's fancies lightly turn to thoughts of love;" but his thoughts seem far removed from such tender dalliance.

She knows, through Cecil, of his being in Ireland with his regiment for the first two of those interminable weeks, and of his appearance in London during the third, where he was seeking an exchange into some regiment ordered on foreign service; but whether he has or has not been successful in his search she is supremely ignorant.

Brooklyn, her dear old home, having been discovered on her grandfather's death to be still in the market, has been bought back for her by Mr. Buscarlet, and here Letitia—with her children and Molly—feels happier and more contented than she could ever have believed to be again possible.

Seated at breakfast, watched over by the faithful Sarah, without apparent cause for uneasiness, there is, nevertheless, an air of uncertainty and expectation about Mrs. Massereene and her sister that makes itself known even to their attendant on this particular morning in early April of which I write.

In vain does Sarah, with a suppressed attempt at coaxing, place the various dishes under Miss Massereene's eyes. They are accepted, lingeringly, daintily, but are not eaten. The children, indeed, voracious as their kind, come nobly to the rescue, and by a kindly barter of their plates for Molly's, which leaves them an undivided profit, contrive to clear the table.

Presently, Molly having refused languidly some delicate steaming cakes of Sarah's own making, that damsel leaves the room in high dudgeon, and Molly leans back in her chair.

"Tell me again, Letty, what you wrote to him," she says, letting her eyes wander through the window, all down the avenue, up which the postman must come, "word for word."

"Just exactly what you desired me, dear," replies Letitia, seriously. "I said I should like to see him once again for the old days' sake, before he left England, which I heard he was on the point of doing. And I also told him, to please you,"—smiling,—"what was an undeniable lie,—that, but for the children, I was here alone."

"Quite right," says Miss Massereene, unblushingly. Then, with considerable impatience, "Will that postman never come?"

All country posts are irregular, and this one is not a pleasant exception. To-day, to create aggravation, it is at least one good half-hour later than usual. When at length, however, it does come, it brings the expected letter from Luttrell.

"Open it quickly,—quickly, Letty," says her sister, and Letitia hastens and reads it with much solemnity.

It is short and rather reckless in tone. It tells them the writer, having effected the desired exchange, hopes to start for India in two weeks at furthest, and that, as he had never at any time contemplated leaving England without bidding Mrs. Massereene good-bye, he would seize the opportunity—she being now alone (heavily dashed)—to run down to Brooklyn to see her this very day.

"Oh, Letty! to-day!" exclaims Molly, paling and flushing, and paling again. "How I wish it was tomorrow!"

"Could there be any one more inconsistent than you, my dear Molly? You have been praying for three whole weeks to see him, and now your prayer is answered you look absolutely miserable."

"It is so sudden," says poor Molly. "And—he never mentioned my name. What if he refuses to have anything to say to me even now? What shall I do then?"

"Nonsense, my dear! When once he sees you, he will forget all his ridiculous pride, and throw himself, like a sensible man, at your feet."

"I wish I could think so. Letty,"—tearfully, and in a distinctly wheedling tone,—"wouldn't you speak to him?"

"Indeed I would not," says Letitia, indignantly. "What, after writing that lie! No, you must of course see him yourself. And, indeed, my dear child,"—laughing,—"you have only to meet him, wearing the lugubrious expression you at present exhibit, to melt his heart, were it the stoniest one in Europe. See,"—drawing her to a mirror,—"was there ever such a Dolores?"

Seeing her own forlorn visage, Molly instantly laughs, thereby ruining forever the dismal look of it that might have stood her in such good stead.

"I suppose he will dine," says Letitia, thoughtfully. "I must go speak to cook."

"Perhaps he will take the very first train back to London," says Molly, still gloomy.

"Perhaps so. Still, we must be prepared for the worst," wickedly. "Therefore, cook and I must consult. Molly,"—pausing at the door,—"you have exactly four hours in which to make yourself beautiful, as he cannot possibly be here before two. And if in that time you cannot create a costume calculated to reduce him to slavery, I shall lose my good opinion of you. By the bye, Molly,"—earnestly, and with something akin to anxiety,—"do you think he likes meringues?"

"How can you be so foolish?" says Miss Massereene, reprovingly. "Of course if he dines he will be in the humor to like anything I like, and I love meringues. But if not,—if not,"—with a heavy sigh,—"you can eat all the meringues yourself."

"Dear, dear!" says Letitia. "She is really very bad."

Almost as the clock strikes two, Molly enters the orchard, having given strict orders to Sarah to send Mr. Luttrell there when he arrives, in search of Mrs. Massereene.

She has dressed herself with great care, and very becomingly, being one of those people who know instantly, by instinct, the exact shade and style that suits them. Besides which, she has too much good taste and too much good sense to be a slave to that tyrant, Fashion.

Here and there the fruit-trees are throwing out tender buds, that glance half shrinkingly upon the world, and show a desire to nestle again amidst their leaves, full of a regret that they have left so soon their wiser sisters.

There is a wonderful sweetness in the air,—a freshness indescribable,—a rare spring perfume. Myriad violets gleam up at her, white and purple, from the roots of apple-trees, inviting her to gather them. But she heeds them not: they might as well be stinging-nettles, for all the notice she bestows upon them. Or is it that the unutterable hope in her own heart overpowers their sweetness?

All her thoughts are centred on the impending interview. How if she shall fail after all? What then? Her heart sinks within her, her hands grow cold with fear. On the instant the blackness of her life in such a case spreads itself out before her like a map,—the lonely pilgrimage,—the unlovely journey, without companionship, or warmth, or pleasant sunshine.

Then she hears the click of the garden gate, and the firm, quick step of him who comes to her up the hilly path between the strawberry-beds.

Drawing a deep breath, she shrinks within the shelter of a friendly laurel until he is close to her; then, stepping from her hiding-place, she advances toward him.

As she does so, as she meets him face to face, all her nervousness, all her inward trembling, vanishes, and she declares to herself that victory shall lie with her.

He has grown decidedly thinner. Around his beautiful mouth a line of sadness has fallen, not to be concealed even by his drooping moustache. He looks five years older. His blue eyes, too, have lost their laughter, and are full of a settled melancholy. Altogether, he presents such an appearance as should make the woman who loves him rejoice, provided she knows the cause.

When he sees her he stops short and grows extremely pale.

"You here!" he says, in tones of displeased surprise. "I understood from Mrs. Massereene you were at Herst. Had I known the truth, I should not have come."

"I knew that; and the lie was mine,—not Letitia's. I made her write it because I was determined to see you again. How do you do, Teddy?" says Miss Massereene, coming up to him, smiling saucily, although a little tremulously. "Will you not even shake hands with me?"

He takes her hand, presses it coldly, and drops it again almost instantly.

"I am glad to see you looking so well," he says, gravely, perhaps reproachfully.

"I am sorry to see you looking so ill," replies she, softly, and then begins to wonder what on earth she shall say next.

Mr. Luttrell, with his cane, takes the heads off two unoffending crocuses that, most unwisely, have started up within his reach. He is the gentlest-natured fellow alive, but he feels a vicious pleasure in the decapitation of those yellow, harmless flowers. His eyes are on the ground. He is evidently bent on silence. On such occasions what is there that can be matched in stupidity with a man?

"I got your letter," Molly says, awkwardly, when the silence has gone past bearing.

"I know."

"I did not answer it."

"I know that too," with some faint bitterness.

"It was too foolish a letter to answer," returns she, hastily, detecting the drop of acid in his tone. "And, even if I had written then, I should only have said some harsh things that might have hurt you. I think I was wise in keeping silence."

"You were. But I cannot see how you have followed up your wisdom by having me here to-day."

There is a little pause, and, then:

"I wanted so much to see you," murmurs she, in the softest, sweetest of voices.

He winces, and shifts his position uneasily, but steadily refuses to meet her beseeching eyes. He visits two more unhappy crocuses with capital punishment, and something that is almost a sigh escapes him; but he will not look up, and he will not trust himself to answer her.

"Have you grown cruel, Teddy?" goes on Molly, in a carefully modulated tone. "You are killing those poor crocuses that have done you no harm. And you are killing me too, and what harm have I done you? Just as I began to see some chance of happiness before us, you ran away (you a soldier, to show the white feather!), and thereby ruined all the enjoyment I might have known in my good fortune. Was that kind?"

"I meant to be kind, Molly; I am kind," replies he huskily.

"Very cruel kindness, it seems to me."

"Later on you will not think so."

"It strikes me, Teddy," says Miss Massereene, reprovingly, "you are angry because poor grandpapa chose to leave me Herst."

"Angry? Why should I be angry?"

"Well, then, why don't you say you are glad?"

"Because I am not glad."

"And why? For months and months we were almost crying for money, and when, by some most fortunate and unlooked-for chance, it fell to my lot, you behaved as though some overpowering calamity had befallen you. Why should not you be as glad of it as I am?"

"Don't speak like that, Molly," says Luttrell, with a groan. "You know all is over between us. The last time we met in London you yourself broke our engagement, and now do you think I shall suffer you to renew it? I am not so selfish as you imagine. I am no match for you now. You must forget me (it will not be difficult, I dare say), and it would be a downright shame to keep you to—to——"

"Then you condemn me to die an old maid, the one thing I most detest; while you, if you refuse to have me, Teddy, I shall insist on your dying an old bachelor, if only to keep me in countenance."

"Think of what the world would say."

"Who cares what it says? And, besides, it knows we were engaged once."

"And also that we quarreled and parted."

"And that we were once more united in London, where you did not despise the poor concert-singer. Were you not devoted to me then, when I had but few friends? Were you ashamed of me then?"

"Ashamed of you!"

"Once you threw me over," says Molly, with a smile that suits the month, being half tears, half sunshine. "Once I did the same by you. That makes us quits. Now we can begin all over again."

"Think of what all your friends will say," says he, desperately, knowing he is losing ground, but still persisting.

"Indeed I will, because all my friends are yours, and they will think as I do."

Two little tears steal from under her heavily-fringed lids, and run down her cheeks. Going nearer to him, she hesitates, glances at him shyly, hesitates still, and finally lays her head upon his shoulder.

Of course, when the girl you love lays her head upon your shoulder, there is only one thing to be done. Luttrell does that one thing. He instantly encircles her with his arms.

"See, I am asking you to marry me," says Molly, raising dewy eyes to his, and blushing one of her rare, sweet blushes. "I beg you to take me. If, after that, you refuse me, I shall die of shame. Why don't you speak, Teddy? Say, 'Molly, I will marry you.'"

"Oh, Molly!" returns the young man, gazing down on her despairingly, while his strong arms hold her fast, "if you were only poor. If this cursed money——"

"Never mind the money. What do I care whether I am rich or poor? I care only for you. If you go away, I shall be the poorest wretch on earth!"

"My angel! My own darling girl!"

"No!" with a little sob. "Say, 'My own darling wife!'"

"My own darling wife!" replies he, conquered.

"Then why don't you kiss me?" says Miss Massereene, softly, her face dangerously close to his; and Tedcastle, stooping, forges the last link that binds him to her forever.

"Ah!" says Molly, presently, laughing gayly, although the tears still lie wet upon her cheeks, "did you imagine for one instant you could escape me? At first I was so angry I almost determined to let you go,—as punishment; but afterward"—mischievously—"I began to think how unhappy you would be, and I relented."

"Then I suppose I must now buy you another ring for this dear little finger," says he, smiling, and pressing it to his lips.

"No,"—running her hand into her pocket, "at least, not an engagement ring. You may get me any other kind you like, because I am fond of rings; but I shall have no betrothal ring but the first you gave me. Look,"—drawing out a little case, and opening it until he sees within the original diamonds—his first gift to her—lying gleaming in their rich new setting. "These are yours; I saved them from the fire that day you behaved so rudely to them, and have had them reset."

"You rescued them?" he asks, amazed.

"At the risk of burning my fingers: so you may guess how I valued them. Now they are purified, and you must never get into such a naughty temper again. Promise."

"I promise faithfully."

"Now I shall wear it again," says Molly, regarding her ring lovingly, "under happier—oh, how much happier—circumstances. Put it on, Teddy, and say after me, 'Darling Molly, pardon me for having compelled you to ask my hand in marriage!'"

"I will not,"—laughing.

"You must. You are my property now, and must do as I bid you. So you may as well begin at once. Say it, sir, directly!"

He says it.

"Now you know what a horrible hen-pecking there will be for you in the future. I shall rule you with a rod of iron."

"And I shall hug my chains."

"Think what a life I am condemning you to. Are you not frightened? And all because—I cannot do without you. Oh, Teddy," cries Molly Bawn, suddenly, and without a word of warning, bursting into a passion of tears, and flinging herself into his willing arms, "are you not glad—glad—that we belong to each other again?"

"Time will show you how glad," replies he, softly. "I know now I could not have lived without you, my sweet,—my darling!"

THE END.