"ah, starry hope, that didst arise

but to be overcast!"

—edgar a. poe.

"the ring asunder broke."

—german song.

at breakfast molly is very pale, and speaks little. she toys with her toast, but cannot eat. being questioned, she confesses herself fatigued, not being accustomed to late hours.

she neither looks at luttrell, nor does he seek to attract her attention in any way.

"a good long walk will refresh you more than anything," says talbot lowry, who has been spending the past few days at herst. he addresses molly, but his eyes seek cecil's as he does so, in the fond hope that she will take his hint and come with him for a similar refresher to that he has prescribed for molly.

cecil's unfortunate encouragement of the night before—displayed more with a view to chagrining sir penthony than from a mere leaning toward coquetry—has fanned his passion to a very dangerous height. he is consumed with a desire to speak, and madly flatters himself that there is undoubted hope for him.

to throw himself at lady stafford's feet, declare his love, and ask her to leave, for him, a husband who has never been more to her than an ordinary acquaintance, and to renounce a name that can have no charms for her, being devoid of tender recollections or sacred memories, seems to him, in his present over-strained condition, a very light thing indeed. in return, he argues feverishly, he can give her the entire devotion of a heart, and, what is perhaps a more practical offer, a larger income than she can now command.

then, in the present day, what so easily, or quietly, or satisfactorily arranged, as a divorce in high life, leaving behind it neither spot nor scar, nor anything unpleasant in the way of social ostracism? and this might—nay, should—follow.

like molly, he has lain awake since early dawn arranging plans and rehearsing speeches; and now, after breakfast, as he walks beside the object of his adoration through the shrubberies and outer walks into the gardens beyond, carried away by the innate vanity of him, and his foolish self-esteem, and not dreaming of defeat, he decides that the time has come to give voice to his folly.

they are out of view of the windows, when he stops abruptly, and says rashly,—with a pale face, it is true, but a certain amount of composure that bespeaks confidence,—"cecil, i can keep silence no longer. let me speak to you, and tell you all that is in my heart."

"he has fallen in love with molly," thinks cecil, wondering vaguely at the manner of his address, he having never attempted to call her by her christian name before.

"you are in love?" she says, kindly, but rather uncertainly, not being able at the moment to call to mind any tender glances of his cast at molly or any suspicious situations that might confirm her in her fancy.

"need you ask?" says lowry, taking her hand, feeling still further emboldened by the gentleness with which she has received his first advance. "have not all these months—nay, this year past—taught you so much?"

"'this year past?'" cecil repeats, honestly at sea, and too much surprised by the heat of his manner to grasp at once the real meaning of his words. though i think a second later a faint inkling of it comes to her, because she releases her hand quickly from his clasp, and her voice takes a sharper tone. "i do not understand you," she says, "take care you understand—yourself."

but the warning comes too late. lowry, bent on his own destruction, goes on vehemently:

"i do—too well. have i not had time to learn it?" he says, passionately. "have i not spent every day, every hour, in thoughts of you? have i not lived in anticipation of our meeting? while you, cecil, surely you, too, were glad when we were together. the best year i have ever known has been this last, in which i have grown to love you."

"pray cease," says cecil, hurriedly, stepping back and raising her hand imperiously. "what can you mean? you must be out of your senses to speak to me like this."

although angry, she is calm, and, indeed, scarcely cares to give way to indignation before lowry, whom she has always looked upon with great kindness and rather in the light of a boy. she is a little sorry for him, too, that he should have chosen to make a fool of himself with her, who, she cannot help feeling, is his best friend. for to all the moodiness and oddity of his nature she has been singularly lenient, bearing with him when others would have lost all patience. and this is her reward. for a full minute lowry seems confounded. then, "i must indeed be bereft of reason," he says, in a low, intense voice, "if i am to believe that you can receive like this the assurance of my love. it cannot be altogether such a matter of wonder—my infatuation for you—as you would have me think, considering how you"—in a rather choked tone—"led me on."

"'led you on'! my dear mr. lowry, how can you talk so foolishly? i certainly thought i knew you very well, and"—docketing off each item on her fingers—"i let you run my messages now and then; and i danced with you; and you sent me the loveliest flowers in london or out of it; and you were extremely kind to me on all occasions; but then so many other men were kind also, that really beyond the flowers,"—going back to her second finger,—"(which were incomparably finer than those i ever received from any one else), i don't see that you were more to me than the others."

"will you not listen to me? will you not even let me plead my cause?"

"certainly not, considering what a cause it is. you must be mad."

"you are cold as ice," says he, losing his head. "no other woman but yourself would consent to live as you do. a wife, and yet no wife!"

"mr. lowry," says lady stafford, with much dignity but perfect temper, "you forget yourself. i must really beg you not to discuss my private affairs. the life i lead might not suit you or any single one of your acquaintance, but it suits me, and that is everything. you say i am 'cold,' and you are right: i am. i fancied (wrongly) my acknowledged coldness would have prevented such a scene as i have been forced to listen to, by you, to-day. you are the first who has ever dared to insult me. you are, indeed, the first man who has ever been at my feet, metaphorically speaking or otherwise; and i sincerely trust," says lady stafford, with profound earnestness, "you may be the last, for anything more unpleasant i never experienced."

"have you no pity for me?" cries he, passionately. "why need you scorn my love? every word you utter tears my heart, and you,—you care no more than if i were a dog! have you no feeling? do you never wish to be as other women are, beloved and loving, instead of being as now——"

"again, sir, i must ask you to allow my private life to be private," says cecil, still with admirable temper, although her color has faded a good deal, and the fingers of one hand have closed convulsively upon a fold of her dress. "i may, perhaps, pity you, but i can feel nothing but contempt for the love you offer, that would lower the thing it loves!"

"not lower it," says he, quickly, grasping eagerly at what he vainly hopes is a last chance. "under the circumstances a divorce could be easily obtained. if you would trust yourself to me there should be no delay. you might easily break this marriage-tie that can scarcely be considered binding."

"and supposing—i do not wish to break it? how then? but enough of this. i cannot listen any longer. i have heard too much already. i must really ask you to leave me. go."

"is this how your friendships end?" asks he, bitterly. "will you deny i was even so much to you?"

"certainly not. though i must add that had i known my friendship with you would have put me in the way of receiving so much insult as i have received to-day, you should never have been placed upon my list. let me pray you to go away now, to leave herst entirely for the present, because it would be out of the question my seeing you again,—at least until time has convinced you of your folly. you are an old friend, talbot, and i would willingly try and forget all that has happened to-day, or at all events to remember it only as a passing madness."

"am i a boy, a fool, that you speak to me like this?" cries he, catching her hand to detain her as she moves away. "and why do you talk of 'insult'? i only urge you to exchange indifference for love,—the indifference of a husband who cares no more for you than for the gravel at your feet."

"and pray, sir, by what rule do you measure the amount of my regard for lady stafford?" exclaims sir penthony, walking through an open space in the privet hedge that skirts this corner of the garden, where he has been spell-bound for the last two minutes. a short time, no doubt, though a great deal can be said in it.

he is positively livid, and has his eyes fixed, not on his enemy, but on his wife.

lowry changes color, but gives way not an inch; he also tightens his grasp on cecil's unwilling hand, and throws up his head defiantly.

"let my wife's hand go directly," says stafford, in a low but furious tone, advancing.

by a quick movement cecil wrenches herself free and gets between the two men. she does not fling herself, she simply gets there, almost—as it seems—without moving.

"not another word, sir penthony," she says, quietly. "i forbid it. i will have no scene. mr. lowry has behaved foolishly, but i desire that nothing more be said about it. go,"—turning to lowry, who is frowning ominously, and pointing imperiously to a distant gate,—"and do as i asked you a few moments since,—leave herst without delay."

so strong is her determination to avoid an esclandre, and so masterly is her manner of carrying out her will, that both men instinctively obey her. sir penthony lowers his eyes and shifts his aggressive position; lowry, with bent head, and without another word, walks away from her down the garden-path out of the gate, and disappears—for years.

when he has quite gone, sir penthony turns to her.

"is this the way you amuse yourself?" he asks, in a compressed voice.

"do not reproach me," murmurs she, hurriedly; "i could not bear it now." she speaks clearly, but her tone has lost its firmness, because of the little tremor that runs through it, while her face is white as one of the pale blossoms she holds within her hand. "besides, it is not deserved. were you long here before you spoke?"

"long enough." with a world of meaning in his tone.

"then you heard my exculpation. 'cold as ice,' he called me. and he was right. as i am to you, sir penthony, so am i to all men. no one yet has touched my heart."

"for myself i can answer," replies he, bitterly; "but for the others——"

"not another word," she breaks in, vehemently. "do not say—do not even hint at—what i might find it impossible to forgive. not even to you will i seek to justify myself on such a point. and you," she says, tears of agitation arising from all she has undergone, mingled with much pent-up wounded feeling, coming thickly into her eyes, "you should be the last to blame me for what has happened, when you remember who it was placed me in such a false position as makes men think they may say to me what they choose."

"you are unjust," he answers, nearly as white as herself. "i only followed out your wishes. it was your own arrangement; i but acceded to it."

"you should not have done so," cries she, with subdued excitement. "you were a man of the world, capable of judging; i was a foolish girl, ignorant of the consequences that must follow on such an act. our marriage was a wretched mistake."

"cecil, you know you can escape from your false position as soon as you choose. no one loves you as i do."

"impossible." coldly. "in this world a thing once done can never be undone. have you lived so long without learning that lesson?"

as she speaks she turns from him, and, walking quickly away, leaves him alone in the garden. much as he has grown to love her, never until now has the very tenderness of affection touched him,—now, when the laughter-loving cecil has changed for him into the feeling, accusing woman; although a woman dead to him, with a heart locked carefully, lest he should enter it.

how can he tell, as she goes so proudly along the garden-path, that her bosom is heaving with shame and unconfessed longing, and that down her cheeks—so prone to dimple with joyous laughter—the bitter tears are falling?

almost as she reaches the house she encounters tedcastle, and turns hastily aside, lest he should mark the traces of her recent weeping. but so bent is he on his own dismal thoughts that he heeds her not, but follows aimlessly the path before him that leads to the balcony from, which the smaller drawing-room may be reached.

he is depressed and anxious, the night's vigil having induced him to believe himself somewhat hasty in his condemnation of molly. as he gains the boudoir he starts, for there in the room, with the light flashing warmly upon her, stands molly bawn alone.

she is dressed in a long trailing gown of black velveteen,—an inexpensive dress, but one that suits her admirably, with its slight adornment of little soft lace frillings at the throat and wrists. pausing irresolutely, luttrell makes as though he would retrace his steps.

"do not go," says molly's voice, clear and firm. "as you are here, i wish to speak to you."

she beckons him to come a little nearer to her, and silently he obeys the gesture. there is a small round table between them, upon which molly is leaning rather heavily. as he approaches, however, and waits, gazing curiously at her for her next word, she straightens herself and compels her eyes to meet his.

"here is your ring," she says, drawing the glittering treasure from her finger and placing it before him.

there is not the extremest trace of excitement or feeling of any kind in her tone. luttrell, on the contrary, shrinks as though touched by fire.

"keep it," he says, involuntarily, coloring darkly.

"no—no."

"why?" he urges. "it will not hurt you, and"—with a quickly-suppressed sigh—"it may perhaps compel you to think of me now and then."

"i have neither wish nor desire ever to think of you again," returns she, still in the same cold, even tone, pushing the ring still closer to him with her first finger. there is something of contempt in the action. a ray from the dancing sun outside falls through the glass on to the diamonds, making them flash and sparkle in their gold setting.

"that admits of no answer," says luttrell, with low but passionate bitterness; and, taking up the ring, he flings it lightly into the very heart of the glowing fire.

with a sudden loss of self-restraint molly makes a movement forward as though to prevent him; but too late,—already the greedy flames have closed upon it.

not all the agitation, not all his angry words of the night before, have affected her so keenly as this last act. she bursts into a very storm of tears.

"oh! what have you done?" cries she. "you have destroyed it; you have burned it,—my pretty ring!"

she clasps her hands together, and gazes with straining eyes into the cruel fire. something within her heart feels broken. surely some string has snapped. the ring, in spite of all, was a last link between them; and now, too, it has gone.

"molly!" says he, taking a step toward her, and holding out his hands, softened, vanquished by her tears, ready to throw himself once more an abject slave at her feet.

"do not speak to me," returns she, still sobbing bitterly. "have you not done enough? i wish you would leave me to myself. go away. there is nothing more that you can do."

feeling abashed, he scarcely knows why, he silently quits the room.

then down upon her knees before the fire falls molly, and with the poker strives with all her might to discover some traces of her lost treasure. so diligent is her search that after a little while the ring, blackened, disfigured, altered almost beyond recognition, lies within her hand. still it is her ring, however changed, and some small ray of comfort gladdens her heart.

she is still, however, weeping bitterly, and examining sadly the precious relic she has rescued from utter oblivion, and from which the diamond, soiled, but still brilliant, has fallen into her palm, when philip enters.

"molly, what has happened?" he asks, advancing toward her, shocked at her appearance, which evinces all the deepest signs of woe. "what has distressed you?"

"you have," cries she, with sudden vehement passion, all her sorrow and anger growing into quick life as she sees him. "you are the cause of all my misery. why do you come near me? you might, at least, have grace enough to spare me the pain of seeing you."

"i do not understand," he says, his face very pale. "in how have i offended,—i, who would rather be dead than cause you any unhappiness? tell me how i have been so unfortunate."

"i hate you," she says, with almost childish cruelty, sobbing afresh. "i wish you had died before i came to this place. you have come between me and the only man i love. yes,"—smiting her hands together in a very agony of sorrow,—"he may doubt it if he will, but i do love him; and now we are separated forever. even my ring"—with a sad glance at it—"is broken, and so is—my heart."

"you are alluding to—luttrell?" asks he,—his earliest suspicions at last confirmed,—speaking with difficulty, so dry his lips have grown.

"i am."

"and how have i interfered between you and—him?"

"why did you speak to me of love again last night," retorts she, "when you must know how detestable a subject it is to me? he saw you put your arm around me; he saw—ah! why did i not tell you then the truth (from which through a mistaken feeling of pity i refrained), that your mere touch sickened me? then you stooped, and he thought—you know what he thought—and yet," cries molly, with a gesture of aversion, "how could he have thought it possible that i should allow you of all men to—kiss me?"

"why speak of what i so well know?" interrupts he hoarsely, with bent head and averted eyes. "you seldom spare me. you are angered, and for what? because you still hanker after a man who flung you away,—you, for whose slightest wish i would risk my all. for a mere chimera, a fancy, a fear only half developed, he renounced you."

"say nothing more," says molly, with pale lips and eyes large and dark through regretful sorrow; "not another word. i think he acted rightly. he thought i was false, and so thinking he was right to renounce. i do not say this in his defense or because—or for any reason only——" she pauses.

"why not continue? because you—love him still."

"well, and why not?" says molly. "why should i deny my love for him? can any shame be connected with it? yes," murmurs she, her sweet eyes filling with tears, her small clasped hands trembling, "though he and i can never be more to each other than we now are, i tell you i love him as i never have and never shall love again."

"it is a pity that such love as yours should have no better return," says he, with an unlovely laugh. "luttrell appears to bear his fate with admirable equanimity."

"you are incapable of judging such a nature as his," returns she, disdainfully. "he is all that is gentle, and true, and noble: while you——" she stops abruptly, causing a pause that is more eloquent than words, and, with a distant bow, hurries from the room.

philip's star to-day is not in the ascendant. even as he stands crushed by molly's bitter reproaches, marcia, with her heart full of a settled revenge toward him, is waiting outside her grandfather's door for permission to enter.

that unlucky shadow of a kiss last night has done as much mischief as half a dozen real kisses. it has convinced marcia of the truth of that which for weeks she has been vainly struggling to disbelieve, namely, philip's mad infatuation for molly.

now all doubt is at an end, and in its place has fallen a despair more terrible than any uncertainty.

all the anguish of a heart rejected, that is still compelled to live on loving its rejector, has been hers for the past two months, and it has told upon her slowly but surely. she is strangely altered. dark hollows lay beneath her eyes, that have grown almost unearthly in expression, so large are they, and so sombre is the fire that burns within them. there is a compression about the lips that has grown habitual; small lines mar the whiteness of her forehead, while among her raven tresses, did any one mark them closely enough, fine threads of silver may be traced.

pacing up and down her room the night before, with widely-opened eyes, gazing upon the solemn blackness that surrounds her, all the wrongs and slights she has endured come to her with startling distinctness. no sense of weariness, no thought of a necessity for sleep, disturbs her reverie or breaks in upon the monotonous misery of her musings. she is past all that. already her death has come to her,—a death to her hope, and joy, and peace,—even to that poor calm that goes so far to deceive the outer world.

oh, the cold, quiet night, when speech is not and sleep has forgotten us! when all the doubts and fears and jealousies that in the blessed daylight slumber, rise up to torture us when even the half-suspected sneer, the covert neglect, that some hours ago were but as faintest pin-pricks, now gall and madden as a poisoned thrust!

a wild thirst for revenge grows within her breast as one by one she calls to mind all the many injuries she has received. strangely enough,—and unlike a woman,—her anger is concentrated on philip, rather than on the one he loves, instinct telling her he is not beloved in return.

she broods upon her wrongs until, as the first bright streak of yellow day illumes the room, flinging its glories profusely upon the wall and ceiling, pretty knickknacks that return its greeting, and angry, unthankful creature alike, a thought comes to her that promises to amply satisfy her vengeful craving. as she ponders on it a curious light breaks upon her face, a smile half triumph, half despair.

now, standing before her grandfather's room, with a folded letter crushed within her palm, and a heart that beats almost to suffocation, she hears him bid her enter.

fatigued by the unusual exertions of a ball, mr. amherst is seated at his table in a lounging-chair, clad in his dressing-gown, and looking older, feebler, than is his wont.

he merely glances at his visitor as she approaches, without comment of any description.

"i have had something on my mind for some time, grandpapa," begins marcia, who is pale and worn, through agitation and the effects of a long and hopeless vigil. "i think it only right to let you know. i have suppressed it all this time, because i feared distressing you; but now—now—will you read this?"

she hands him, as she speaks, the letter received by philip two months before relative to his unlucky dealings with some london jews.

in silence mr. amherst reads it, in silence re-reads it, and finally, folding it up again, places it within his desk.

"you and philip have quarreled?" he says, presently, in a quiet tone.

"no, there has been no quarrel."

"your engagement is at an end?"

"yes."

"and is this the result of last night's vaunted pleasures?" asks he, keenly. "have you snatched only pain and a sense of failure from its fleeting hours? and eleanor, too,—she was pale at luncheon, and for once silent,—has she too found her coveted fruit rotten at its core? it is the universal law," says the old man, grimly, consoling himself with a pinch of snuff, taken with much deliberation from an exquisite louis quinze box that rests at his elbow, and leaning back languidly in his chair. "life is made up of hopes false as the ignis-fatuus. when with the greatest sense of security and promise of enjoyment we raise and seek to drain the cup of pleasure, while yet we gaze with longing eyes upon its sparkling bubbles, and, stooping thirstily, suffer our expectant lips at length to touch it, lo! it is then, just as we have attained to the summit of our bliss, we find our sweetest draught has turned to ashes in our mouth."

he stops and drums softly on the table for a moment or two, while marcia stands before him silently pondering.

"so philip is already counting on my death," he goes on, meditatively, still softly tapping the table. "how securely he rests in the belief of his succession! his father's son could scarcely fail to be a spendthrift, and i will have—no—prodigal at herst—to hew—and cut—and scatter. a goodly heritage, truly, as buscarlet called it. be satisfied, marcia: your revenge is complete. philip shall not inherit herst."

"i do not seek revenge," says marcia, unsteadily, now her wish is fulfilled and philip hopelessly crushed, a cold, troubled faintness creeping round her heart. an awful sense of despair, a fruitless longing to recall her action, makes her tremble. "only i could not bear to see you longer deceived,—you, after all the care—the trouble—you bestowed upon him. my conscience compelled me to tell you all."

"and you, marcia,"—with an odd smile she is puzzled to explain,—"you have never deceived me, have you? all your pretty speeches and tender cares have been quite sincere?"

"dear grandpapa, yes."

"you have not wished me dead, or spoken or thought evilly of the old tyrant at herst, who has so often crossed and thwarted you?"

"never, dear: how could i—when i remember——"

"ay, quite so. when one remembers! and gratitude is so common a thing. will you oblige me by sending a line to mr. buscarlet, asking him to come to me without delay?"

"you are going to alter your will?" she asks, faintly, shocked at the speedy success of her scheme.

"yes," coolly. "i am going to cut philip out of it."

"grandpapa, do not be too hard on him," she says, putting her hand across her throat, and almost gasping. "he is young. young men sometimes——"

"i was once a young man myself, you seem to forget, and i know all about it. why did you give me that letter?" he asks, grimly. "are you chicken-hearted, now you have done the deed, like all women? it is too late for remorse to be of use: you have done it. let it be your portion to remember how you have willfully ruined his prospects."

a choking sigh escapes her as she quits the room. truly she has bought her revenge dearly. not the poorest trace of sweetness lingers in it.

by this time it will be perceived that the house is in a secret turmoil. every one is at daggers drawn with every one else. molly and lady stafford have as yet exchanged no confidences, though keenly desirous of doing so, each having noticed with the liveliest surmisings the depression of the other.

mr. potts alone, who is above suspicion (being one of those cheerful people who never see anything—no matter how closely under their noses—until it is brought before them in the broadest language), continues blissfully unconscious of the confusion that reigns around, and savors his conversation throughout the evening with as many embarrassing remarks as he can conveniently put in.

"eaten bread is soon forgotten," says he, sententiously, during a pause. "you all seem strangely oblivious of the fact that last night there was a ball in this house. why shirk the subject? i like talking," says mr. potts, superfluously, "and surely you must all have something to communicate concerning it. thanks to our own exertions, i think it was as good a one as ever i was at; and the old boy"—(i need scarcely say mr. amherst has retired to rest)—was uncommon decent about giving us the best champagne."

"you took very good care to show him how you appreciated his hospitality," says sir penthony, mildly.

"well, why shouldn't i do honor to the occasion? a ball at herst don't come every day. as a rule, an affair of the kind at a country house is a failure, as the guests quarrel dreadfully among themselves next day; but ours has been a brilliant exception."

"brilliant indeed," says lady stafford, demurely.

"but what became of lowry?" demands this wretched young man, who has never yet learned that silence is golden. "he told me this morning he intended staying on until the end of the week, and off he goes to london by the midday train without a word of warning. must have heard some unpleasant news, i shouldn't wonder, he looked so awfully cut up. did he tell you anything about it?" to lady stafford.

"no." in a freezing tone. "i see no reason why i, in particular, should be bored by mr. lowry's private woes."

"well, you were such a friend, you know, for one thing," says potts, surprised, but obtuse as ever.

"so i am of yours; but i sincerely trust the fact of my being so will not induce you to come weeping to me whenever you chance to lose your heart or place all your money on the wrong horse."

"did he lose his money, then?"

"plantagenet, dancing has muddled your brain. how should i know whether he lost his money or not? i am merely supposing. you are dull to-night. come and play a game at écarté with me, to see if it may rouse you."

they part for the night rather earlier than usual, pleading fatigue,—all except mr. potts, who declares himself fresh as a daisy, and proposes an impromptu dance in the ball-room. he is instantly snubbed, and retires gracefully, consoling himself with the reflection that he has evidently more "go" in his little finger than they can boast in their entire bodies.

sir penthony having refused to acknowledge his wife's parting salutation,—meant to conciliate,—cecil retires to her room in a state of indignation and sorrow that reduces her presently to tears.

her maid, entering just as she has reached the very highest pinnacle of her wrongs, meets with anything but a warm reception.

"how now, trimmins? did i ring?" asks she, with unwonted sharpness, being unpleasantly mindful of the redness of her eyes.

"no, my lady; but i thought——"

"never think," says cecil, interrupting her with unreasoning irritation.

"no, my lady. i only thought perhaps you would see miss massereene," persists trimmins, meekly. "she wishes to know, with her love, if you can receive her now."

"miss massereene? of course i can. why did you not say so before?"

"your ladyship scarcely gave me time," says trimmins, demurely, taking an exhaustive survey of her cambric apron.

"true; i was hasty," cecil acknowledges, in her impulsive, honest, haughty way. "tell miss massereene i shall be delighted to see her at once."

presently molly enters, her eyelids pink, the corners of her mouth forlornly curved, a general despondency in her whole demeanor.

cecil, scarcely more composed, advances to meet her.

"why, molly!" she says, pathetically.

"you have been crying," says molly, in the same breath, throwing herself into her arms.

"i have indeed, my dear," confesses cecil, in a lachrymose tone, and then she begins to cry again, and molly follows suit, and for the next five minutes they have a very comfortable time of it together.

then they open their hearts to each other and relate fluently, as only a woman can, all the intolerable wrongs and misjudgment they have undergone at the hands of their lovers.

"to accuse me of anything so horrible!" says molly, indignantly. "oh, cecil! i don't believe he could care for me one bit and suspect me of it."

"'care for you!' nonsense, my dear! he adores you. that is precisely why he has made such a fool of himself. you know—

trifles light as air,

are to the jealous confirmations strong

as proofs of holy writ.

"i like a man to be jealous,—in reason. though when sir penthony walked out from behind that hedge, looking as if he could, with pleasure, devour me and talbot at a bite, i confess i could gladly have dispensed with the quality in him. you should have seen his face: for once i was honestly frightened."

"poor cecil! it must have been a shock. and all because that tiresome young man wouldn't go away."

"just so. all might have been well had he only seen things in a reasonable light. oh, i was so angry! the most charming of your charms, molly," says cecil, warmly, "is your ability to sympathize with one. you can feel so thoroughly with and for me; and you never season your remarks with unpalatable truths. you never say, 'i told you so,' or 'i knew how it would be,' or 'didn't i warn you?' or anything else equally objectionable. i really would rather a person boxed my ears outright than give way to such phrases as those, pretending they know all about a catastrophe, after it has happened. and," says her ladyship, with a pensive sigh, "you might perhaps (had you so chosen) have accused me of flirting a leetle bit with that stupid talbot."

"well, indeed, perhaps i might, dear," says molly, innocently.

"what, are you going to play the traitor after all that flattery? and if so, what am i to say to you about your disgraceful encouragement of captain shadwell?"

"i wonder if i did encourage him?" says molly, contritely. "at first, perhaps unconsciously, but lately i am sure i didn't. do you know, cecil, i positively dislike him? he is so dark and silent, and still persistent. but when a man keeps on saying he is miserable for love of you, and that you are the cause of all his distress, and that he would as soon be dead as alive, because you cannot return his affection, how can one help feeling a little sorry for him?"

"i don't feel in the least sorry for talbot. i thought him extremely unpleasant and impertinent, and i hope with all my heart he is very unhappy to-night, because it will do him good."

"cecil, how cruel you are!"

"well, by what right does he go about making fierce love to married women, compelling them to listen to his nonsense whether they like it or not, and getting them into scrapes? i don't break my heart over sir penthony, but i certainly do not wish him to think badly of me."

"at least," says molly, relapsing again into the blues, "you have this consolation: you cannot lose sir penthony."

"that might also be looked on as a disadvantage. still, i suppose there is some benefit to be gained from my position," says cecil, meditatively. "my lover (if indeed he is my lover) cannot play the false knight with me; i defy him to love—and to ride away. there are no breakers ahead for me. he is mine irrevocably, no matter how horribly he may desire to escape. but you need not envy me; it is sweeter to be as you are,—to know him yours without the shadow of a tie. he is not lost to you."

"effectually. what! do you think i would submit to be again engaged to a man who could fling me off for a chimera, a mere trick of the imagination? if he were to beg my pardon on his knees,—if he were to acknowledge every word he said to me a lie,—i would not look at him again."

"i always said your pride would be your bane," says cecil, reprovingly. "now, just think how far happier you would be if you were friends with him again, and think of nothing else. what is pride in comparison with comfort?"

"have you forgiven sir penthony?"

"freely. but he won't forgive me."

"have you forgiven him the first great crime of all,—his indifference toward his bride?"

"n—o," confesses her ladyship, smiling; "not yet."

"ah! then don't blame me. i could have killed myself when i cried," says molly, referring again to the past, with a little angry shiver; "but i felt so sorry for my poor, pretty, innocent ring. and he looked so handsome, so determined, when he flung it in the fire, with his eyes quite dark and his figure drawn up; and—and—i could not help wondering," says molly, with a little tremble in her tone, "who next would love him—and who—he—would love."

"i never thought you were so fond of him, dearest," says cecil, laying her hand softly on her friend's.

"nor i,—until i lost him," murmurs poor molly, with a vain attempt at composure. two tears fall heavily into her lap; a sob escapes her.

"now you are going to cry again," interposes cecil, with hasty but kindly warning. "don't. he is not going to fall in love with any one so long as you are single, take my word for it. nonsense, my dear! cheer yourself with the certainty that he is at this very moment eating his heart out, because he knows better than i do that, though there may be many women, there is only one molly bawn in the world."

this reflection, although consolatory, has not the desired effect. instead of drying her eyes and declaring herself glad that luttrell is unhappy, molly grows more and more afflicted every moment.

"my dear girl," exclaims lady stafford, as a last resource, "do pray think of your complexion. i have finished crying; i shall give way to crying no more, because i wish to look my best to-morrow, to let him see what a charming person he has chosen to quarrel with. and my tears are not so destructive as yours, because mine arise from vexation, yours from feeling."

"i hardly know," says molly, with an attempt at nonchalance she is far from feeling, "i really think i cried more for my diamond than for—my lover. however, i shall take your advice; i shall think no more about it. to-morrow"—rising and running to the glass, and pushing back her disordered hair from her face, that is lovely in spite of marring tears—"to-morrow i shall be gayer, brighter than he has ever yet seen me. what! shall i let him think i fret because of him! he saw me once in tears; he shall not see me so again."

"what a pity it is that grief should be so unbecoming!" says cecil, laughing. "i always think what a guy niobe must have been if she was indeed all tears."

"the worst thing about crying, i think," says molly, "is the fatal desire one feels to blow one's nose: that is the horrid part of it. i knew i was looking odious all the time i was weeping over my ring, and that added to my discomfort. by the bye, cecil, what were you doing at the table with a pencil just before we broke up to-night? sir penthony was staring at you fixedly all through,—wondering, i am sure, at your occupation, as, to tell the truth, was i."

"nothing very remarkable. i was inditing a 'sonnet to your eyebrow,' or rather to your lids, they were so delicately tinted, and so much in unison with the extreme dejection of your entire bearing. i confess, unkind as it may sound, they moved me to laughter. ah! that reminds me," says cecil, her expression changing to one of comical terror, as she starts to her feet, "plantagenet came up at the moment, and lest he should see my composition i hid it within the leaves of the blotting-book. there it is still, no doubt. what shall i do if any one finds it in the morning? i shall be read out of meeting, as i have an indistinct idea that, with a view to making you laugh, i rather caricatured every one in the room, more or less."

"shall i run down for it?" says molly. "i won't be a moment, and you are quite undressed. in the blotting-book, you said? i shan't be any time."

"unless the ghosts detain you."

"or, what would be much worse, any of our friends."