"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."