"why, look you, how you storm!

i would be friends with you, and have your love."

—merchant of venice.

"she is indeed perfection."

—othello.

the fourth day before that fixed upon for leaving brooklyn, molly, coming down to breakfast, finds upon her plate a large envelope directed in her grandfather's own writing,—a rather shaky writing now, it is true, but with all the remains of what must once have been bold and determined calligraphy.

"who can it be from?" says molly, regarding the elaborate seal and crest with amazement,—both so scarlet, both so huge.

"open it, dear, and you will see," replies letitia, who is merely curious, and would not be accused of triteness for the world.

breaking the alarming seal, molly reads in silence; while letitia, unable to bear suspense, rises and reads it also over her sister's shoulder.

it consists of a very few lines, and merely expresses a desire—that is plainly a command—that molly will come the following day to herst, as her grandfather has something of importance to say to her.

"what can it be?" says molly, glancing over her shoulder at mrs. massereene, who has taken the letter to re-read it.

"something good, perhaps." wistfully. "there may be some luck in store for you."

"hardly. i have ceased to believe in my own good luck," says molly, bitterly. "at all events, i suppose i had better go. afterward i might reproach myself for having been inattentive to his wishes."

"go, by all means," says letitia; and so it is arranged.

feeling tired and nervous, she arrives the next day at herst, and is met in the hall by her friend the housekeeper in subdued spirits and the unfailing silk gown, who receives her in a good old motherly fashion and bestows upon her a warm though deferential kiss.

"you have come, my dear, and i am glad of it," she says in a mysterious tone. "he has been asking for you incessant. miss amherst, she is away from home." this in a pleased, confidential tone, miss amherst being distinctly unpopular among the domestics, small and great. "mr. amherst he sent her to the latouches' for a week,—against her will, i must say. and the captain, he has gone abroad."

"has he?" surprised.

"yes, quite suddent like, and no one the wiser why. when last he come home, after being away a whole day, he seemed to me daft like,—quite," says mrs. nesbitt, raising her eyes and hands, whose cozy plumpness almost conceals the well-worn ring that for twenty years of widowhood has rested there alone, "quite as though he had took leave of his senses."

"yes?" says molly, in a faltering tone, feeling decidedly guilty.

"ah, indeed, miss massereene, and so 'twas. but you are tired, my dear, no doubt, and a'most faint for a glass of wine. come and take off your things and rest yourself a bit, while i tell mr. amherst of your arrival."

in half an hour, refreshed and feeling somewhat bolder, molly descends, and, gaining the library door, where her grandfather awaits her, she opens it and enters.

as, pale, slender, black-robed, she advances to his side, mr. amherst looks up.

"you have come," he says, holding out his hand to her, but not rising. there is a most unusual nervousness and hesitancy about his manner.

"yes. you wrote for me, and i came," she answers simply, stooping, as in duty bound, to press her lips to his cheek.

"are you well?" he asks, scrutinizingly, struck by the difference in her appearance since last he saw her.

"yes, thank you, quite well."

"i am sorry to see you in such trouble." there is a callousness about the way in which these words are uttered that jars upon molly. she remembers on the instant all his narrow spleen toward the one now gone.

"i am,—in sore trouble," she answers, coldly.

a pause. mr. amherst, although apparently full of purpose, clearly finds some difficulty about proceeding. molly is waiting in impatient silence.

"you wished to speak to me, grandpapa?" she says, at length.

"yes,—yes. only three days ago i heard you had been left—badly provided for. is this so?"

"it is."

"and that"—speaking slowly—"you had made up your mind to earn your own living. have i still heard correctly?"

"quite correctly. mr. buscarlet would be sure to give you a true version of the case."

"the news has upset me." for the first time he turns his head and regards her with a steady gaze. "i particularly object to your doing anything of the kind. it would be a disgrace, a blot upon our name forever. none of our family has ever been forced to work for daily bread. and i would have you remember you are an amherst."

"pardon me, i am a massereene."

"you are an amherst." with some excitement and considerable irritation. "your mother must count in some way, and you—you bear a strong resemblance to every second portrait of our ancestors in the gallery upstairs. i wrote, therefore, to bring you here that i might personally desire you to give up your scheme of self-support and come to live at herst as its mistress."

"'its mistress'!" repeats molly, in utter amazement. "and how about marcia?"

"she shall be amply portioned,—if you consent to my proposal."

she is quite silent for a moment or two, pondering slowly; then, in a low, curious tone, she says:

"and what is to become of my sister?"

"your step-sister-in-law, you mean." contemptuously. "i dare say she will manage to live without your assistance."

molly's blue eyes here show signs of coming fight; so do her hands. although they hang open and motionless at her sides, there is a certain tension about the fingers that in a quick, warm temperament betokens passion.

"and my dead brother's children?"

"they too can live, no doubt. they are no whit worse off than if you had never been among them."

"but i have been among them," cries she, with sudden uncontrollable anger that can no longer be suppressed. "for all the years of my life they have been my only friends. when i was thrown upon the world without father or mother, my brother took me and gave me a father's care. i was left to him a baby, and he gave me a mother's love. he fed me, clothed me, guarded me, educated me, did all that man could do for me; and now shall i desert those dear to him? they are his children, therefore mine. as long as i can remember, he was my true and loving friend, while you—you—what are you to me? a stranger—a mere——"

she stops abruptly, fearing to give her passion further scope, and, casting her eyes upon the ground, folds one hand tightly over the other.

"you are talking sentimental folly," replies he, coolly. "listen. you shall hear the truth. i ill-treated your mother, as you know. i flung her off. i refused her prayer for help, although i knew that for months before your birth she was enduring absolute want. your father was in embarrassed circumstances at that time. now i would make reparation to her, through her child. i tell you"—vindictively—"if you will consent to give up the family of the man who stole my eleanor from me i will make you my heiress. all the property is unentailed. you shall have herst and twenty thousand pounds a year at my death."

"oh! hush, hush!"

"think it over, girl. give it your fullest consideration. twenty thousand pounds a year! it will not fall to your lot every day."

"you strangely forget yourself," says molly, with chilling hauteur, drawing herself up to her full height. "has all your vaunted amherst blood failed to teach you what honor means? you bribe me with your gold to sell myself, my better feelings, all that is good in me! oh, shame! although i am but a massereene, and poor, i would scorn to offer any one money to forego their principles and betray those who loved and trusted in them!"

"you refuse me?" asks he, in tones that tremble with rage and disappointment.

"i do."

"then go," cries he, pointing to the door with uplifted fingers that shake perceptibly. "leave me, and never darken my doors again. go, earn your bread. starve for those beggarly brats. work until your young blood turns to gall and all the youth and freshness of your life has gone from you."

"i hope i shall manage to live without all you predict coming to pass," the girl replies, faintly though bravely, her face as white as death. is it a curse he is calling down upon her?

"may i ask how you intend doing so?" goes on this terrible old man. "few honest paths lie open to a woman. you have not yet counted the cost of your refusal. is the stage to be the scene of your future triumphs?"

she thinks of luttrell, and of how differently he had put the very same question. oh, that she had him near her now to comfort and support her! she is cold and trembling.

"you must pardon me," she says, with dignity, "if i refuse to tell you any of my plans."

"you are right in refusing. it is no business of mine. from henceforth i have no interest whatsoever in you or your affairs. go,—go. why do you linger, bandying words with me, when i bid you begone?"

in a very frenzy of mortification and anger he turns his back upon her, and sinking down into the chair from which in his rage he has arisen, he lets his head fall forward into his hands.

a great and sudden sadness falls on molly. she forgets all the cruel words that have been said, while a terrible compassion for the loneliness, the utter barrenness of his drear old age, grows within her.

crossing the room with light and noiseless footsteps, treading as though in the presence of one sick unto death, she comes up to him, lays her hands upon his shoulders, and stooping, presses her fresh young lips to his worn and wrinkled forehead.

"good-bye, grandpapa," she says, softly, kindly. then, silently, and without another farewell, she leaves him—forever.

she hardly remembers how she makes the return journey; how she took her ticket; how cavalierly she received the attentions of the exceedingly nice young man with flaxen hair suggestive of champagne who would tuck his railway rug around her, heroically unmindful of the cold that penetrated his own bones. such trifling details escaped her then and afterward, leaving not so much as the smallest track upon her memory. yet that yellow-haired young man dreamt of her for a week afterward, and would not be comforted, although all that could be done by a managing mother with two marriageable daughters was done to please him and bring him to see the error of his ways.

all the way home she ponders anxiously as to whether she shall or shall not reveal to letitia all that has taken place. to tell her will be beyond doubt to grieve her; yet not to tell her,—how impossible that will be! the very intensity of her indignation and scorn creates in her an imperative desire to open her heart to somebody. and who so sympathetic as letitia? and, after all, even if she hides it now, will not letitia discover the truth sooner or later? still——

she has not yet decided on her line of action when brooklyn is reached. she is still wavering, even when letitia, drawing, her into the parlor, closes the door, and, having kissed her, very naturally says, "well?"

and molly says "well" also, but in a different tone; and then she turns pale, and then red,—and then she makes up her mind to tell the whole story.

"what did he want with you?" asks letitia, while she is still wondering how she shall begin.

"very little." bitterly. "a mere trifle. he only wanted to buy me. he asked me to sell myself body and soul to him,—putting me at a high valuation, too, for he offered me herst in exchange if i would renounce you and the children."

"molly!"

"yes. just that. oh, letty! only a month ago i thought how sweet and fair and good a thing was life, and now—and now—that old man, tottering into his grave, has taught me the vileness of it."

"he offered you herst? he offered you twenty thousand pounds a year?"

"he did, indeed. was it not noble? does it not show how highly he esteems me? i was to be sole mistress of the place; and marcia was to be portioned off and—i saw by his eyes—banished."

"and you—refused?"

"letty! how can you ask me such a question? besides refusing, i had the small satisfaction of telling him exactly what i thought of him and his proposal. i do not think he will make such overtures to me again. are you disappointed, letty, that you look so strangely? did you think, dear, i should bring you home some good news, instead of this disgraceful story?"

"no." in a low tone, and with a gesture of impatience. "i am not thinking of myself. last week, molly, you relinquished your love—for us; to-day you have resigned fortune. will you never repent? in the days to come, how will you forgive us? before it is too late, think it over and——"

"letitia," says molly, laying her hand upon her sister's lips, "if you ever speak to me like that again i shall—kill you."