"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!"