The following text may have been generated by Optical Character Recognition, with varying degrees of accuracy. Reader beware!

“ I have, lndwll. my dear.” confesses Cecil, in a lnc’mymnse tone, and then she begms to cry ngm'n, and Molly follows wit, and for the next five minutes they have a. very comforta- bleilim \ {)f it together. 7 the k arms Then Llu-y opél Lllulz' hearts to each other, and rel:er fluently, an: only a. woman can, all the imolu-ublc wrongs and misjudgments they have undergone at the hands of their lovers. ‘ .. “ To accuse me of anything so horrible I" says Molly, indignantly. “ Oh, Cecil l I don‘t believe he could care for me one bit and sus- pect me of It.” “ Care f1 you! Nonsense. my dear ! he adores you. That is precisely why he has made such a fool of himself. You know-â€" “ Trifles light as air, Are to the jealous, confirmations strong, As prool‘s of holy writ.” I like a man to be jealousâ€"in reason. Though when Sir Penthony walked out from behind that hedge, looking as if he could with plea- sure 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.” “ Pour Cecil ! if mlfst have been a shock. And all because that tiresome young man wouldn‘t go away." 7 A “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 ; 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 aluabout a cat» astrophe, 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 little bit with that stupid Tal- bot.” “Well, indeed, perhaps I might,dear,” says_Molly, innocentlyZ “ What, are you going to play the traitor after all that flattery ? And, if so, what am 1 to say to you about your disgraceful encour- agement of Captain Shadwell ?” “ I wonder if I did encourage him ?" says filly, contritely. ” At first, perhaps. uncon- sciously, 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 us alive. because you cannot return his affec- tion, 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 1m- pertinent, and I hope with all my heart he is very unhappy tonight, because it will do him good.” “ Cecil, how cruel you are l" “ Well, by what right does he go about making fierce love to married women. com- pelling them to listen to his nonsense whether they like it or not, and getting them into scrapes ? I don’t; break my heart over 811‘ Pen- thony, but I certainly do not wish him to think badly of me.” “ At leaét,” says Molly, relapsing again into the blues, “ you have this consolation ; you cannot lose Sir Penthfionyflr " That might also be looked on as a. disad- vantage. Still, I suppose there is some benefit to be gained from my position," says Cecil, meditatively. " My love (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 areâ€"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 03 for a chimera, a mere trick of the imagination? If he were to beg my pardon on his kneesâ€"i1 he were to acknow- ledge every word he said to me a lieâ€"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 '2" “ Freely. But he Won’t forgive me ?” “ Have you forgiven him the first great crime of allâ€"~his indifference towards his bride?” “ Nâ€"o," confesses her ladyship. smiling ; ‘gnot yeti} MQLEY' Cecil wet]. . “Why, Molly 1” she says, pathetically. " You Imve been crying,” says Molly, in 1e same brumh, throwing herself into her «any (‘ly more cmnwsud, advances to .3 “ Ah I then don’t blame me. I could have killed myself when I cried," says Molly, refer- ring 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; andâ€"andâ€"I could not help wondering,” says Molly, with a little tremble in her tone, “ who next would love himâ€"and whoâ€"hoâ€"would love." W‘V‘VI never thought you were so fond of him, dearest,” says Cecil. laying her hand softly on her friend’s. “Nor Iâ€"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,” inter- poses 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 your- self 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 efiect. Instead offlrying her eyes and declaring herself glad. that Luttrell is unhappy. Molly grows more and more af- flicted every moment. “ My dear girl." exclaims Lady Stafford. as a last resource, “ do play think of your cam- plexion. 1 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.“ 1' u n! ,L i V“ I hardly knovi” says Molly. with an at heppt _a_.t uppcpallanpe‘she is far from feeling: “ I really think I cried more for my diamond than forâ€"my lover. However, I shall take your advice -, I shall think no more about it. To-morrow” â€"rising and running to the glass. and pushing back her disordered hair from her face, that is lovely in spite of max-ring tearsâ€"N tu morrow I shall be guyer, brighter than he has over yet seen me. What 1 shall I let him think I fret because of him ? He flaw me once in team; he shall not see me so again.” “ ()2: A11 1 “ What a pity it is grief should be so unbe- coming l" 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 u" to-night? Sir Peuthony 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 were so much in unison with the extreme dejection T “113' B-y '11, why leave me pimng, ix muting here for you."- old Song AUTHOR ()1 of your entire hearing. I confess, unkind as it may sound, they moved me to laughter ! Ah ! that reminds me,” says Cecil, her expression changing to oneof comical terror, as she starts to her feet, “Plantagenet came up at the mo- ment. 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 of making you laugh, I rather caricaturod 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 an- dressed. Iu the blotting-book, you said? I Bhan’t be any time.” “ Unless the ghosts detain you.” “ Or, what would be much worse, any of our friends.” Half light, half shade She stood, a. sight to make an old man young.’ â€" GARDENER’S DAUG HTER. Thrusting her little bare feet into her slippers. she takes up a. candle and walks softly down the stairs, past the smokimv and billiard-rooms, into the drawing-room, “here the paper has been left. All the lamps have been extinguished, leav- ing the apartment, which is immense, steeped in darkness. Coming into it from the bril- liantlydighted hall outside, with only a. candle in her hand. the gloom seems even greater, and overcomes her sight to such a degree that she has traversed at least one-half its length before she discovers she is not its only occupant. Seated before a writing-table, with his hand, indeed, upon the very blotting-book she seeks, and with only another candle similar to hers to lend him light, sits Luttrell. As her eyesimeet his she starts. colors vio- lently, and is for the moment utterly abashed. Involuntarily she glances down at the soft blue dressing-gown she wears, over which her hairâ€"brushed and arranged for the nightâ€" falls in soft. rippling, gold-brown masses, and from thence to the little naked feet that peep out shnmelessly from their blue slippers. The crimson blood rises to her face. Cov- ered with a painful though pretty confusion she stands quite $3111 and lets her tell-tale eyes seek the ground. Luttrell has risen. and without any particu- lar design has advanced towards her. Per- haps the Iowa of habit compels him to do so, perhaps intense and not altogether welcome surprise. For the future to see her is but to add one more pang to his intolerable regret. “ I was writing to you,” he says. indicating, with a slight movement of the hand. the chair on which he has been sitting, and thus break- ing the awful silence which threatens to last until next day, so mute has Molly grown. With a delicate sense of chivalry he endeav- ors to appear oblivious of ller rather scanty and disconcerting â€"however becoming -cos- tume. “ But, as it is. perhaps I may as well say to you what is on my mindâ€"if you will permit me.” » " I cannot forbid your speech.” Coldly. “ I will not keep you long. But”â€"-With a slight, almost imperceptible glance at her dreSSing-gownâ€"“ perhaps you are in a hurry 7” “I tamâ€"rather." At this juncture, had they been friends, Molly would undoubtedly have laughed. As it is, she is profoundly se- rious. “ Still, if it is anything important, I will hear you.” “Can i do anything for you?” asks he, hesitating, evidently fearing to approach the desired subject, “ Nothing, thank you. I came only for a paperâ€"left in the blotting-book. If you Wlsh to speak, do so quickly, as I must go.” Then, as he still hesitates, “ why do you pause ‘ “ Because I fear incurring your displeasure once again ; and surely the passages between us have been bad enough already." _ r 7" Do not fear.” Coldfy. “ It i§ no longer in your_powe1; t9 wo.u_ud mp.” y “ Time. I should not have allowed that fuct to escape me. Yet hear me. It is my love urge_s_me 013.” ..-..‘ . . 1 - WE’Yourâ€"love 1" With slow and scornful disbelief. “ Yesâ€"mine. In spite of all that. has come and gone, you know me well enough to understand how dear you still are to me. No, you need not say a. word ; I can see by your face that you will never pardon. There is no gleater curse than to love a woman who gives one but bare tolerance in return.” “ Why did you not think of all this while there was yet time T: > _ (‘Tbne airlineâ€"until it is too late to seek for remedies. My heaviest misfortune lies in the fact that I cannot root you from my heart.” I; A terrible misfortune, no doubt”â€"with a, little angry flash from her azure eyes~” but one that time will cure.” “ A single stream of all her brown hair Poured on one Hide "Will it?” Wistfully. “ Shall I indeed learn to forget you, Mollyâ€"to look back upon my brief but happy past as an idle dream? I hardly hope so much." - “ And would you waste fill" your best days.” asked she, in tones that tremble ever so little, “ in thinking of me ? Remember all you said â€"al] you meantâ€"how thankful you were to find me out in time.” “ And will you condemn forever because of a few Words spoken in a moment of despair and terrible disappointment ‘2" pleads he. ” I acknowledge my fault. I was wrong ; I was too hasty. I behaved like a brute. if you will; but then I believed I had grounds for fear. When once I saw your face, heard your voice, looked into your eyes, I knew how false my accusations were; but it was then too late." “ Too late, indeed.” “ How calmly you can say it I” with ex- quisite reproach. “ Have five minutes blotted out fivemonths? Did you know all the anguish I endured on seeing you withâ€"â€"Shadwellâ€"-I think you_migh_t foggivef" .. mp. VOL XXII. " I might. But I could not forget. Would I again consent to be at the mercy of one who. without a question, pronounced me guilty ? A thousand times no !” WICSay at. once you are glad to be rid of me,” breaks in he, bitterly, stung by her persistent coldness. “ You are forgetting your original purpose,” she says. after a slight pause. declining to no- tice his last remark. “ Wat; there not some- thing you wished to say to me ‘1’” “ Yes." Rousing himself with: an impatient sigh. “ Molly”â€"blanching a little, and try- ing to read her face, with all his heart in his eyesâ€"“ are you going to marry Shad- well 1’” Molly colors richly (a rare thing with her), growe pale again, Clasps and unclusps her slender fingers nervously, before she makes reply. A prompting towards mischief grows within her, together with a sense of anger that he should dare put such a question to her under existing circumstances. “ I cannot see by what tight you put to me such a. questionâ€"mow,” she says. at length, haughtily. “ My afiairs can no longer con- cern you.” With an offended gleam at him from under her long lashes. “ But they do,” cries he, hotly, maddened by her blush, which he has attributed jeal- ously to a wrong cause. ” How can I see you throwing yourself away upon a 7‘()ueâ€"â€"a blacklegâ€"without uttering a word of warn- ing ‘2” “ A mugâ€"9. blackIeg‘? Those are strong terms. What has Captain Shadwell done to deserve them ? A blackleg? How ?” CHAPTER XXVI. “ Perhaps I go too far when I say that,” says Luttrell, wishing with all his heart he knew something vile of Shadwell; “ but he has gone as near it as anyman well can. Will you sacrifice your entire life without consider- ing yell the consequences ?” 77 n “He is a gentleman, at all events, says Miss Massereene, slowly, cuttingly. " He never backbites his friends. He is courteous in his manner ; andâ€"he knows how to keep â€"â€"his temper. I do not believe any of your insinuations.” “You defend him ?” cries Luttrell. vehe- mently. “ Does that mean that you already love him ? It is impossible I In a few short weeks to forget all the vows we interchanged, all the good days we spent at Brooklyn, be- fore ever we came to this accursed place I There at least you h’ked me well enoughâ€"you were willing to trust to me your life's happi- ness; here !â€"-â€" And now you almost tell me on love this man, who is utterly unworthy fyou. Speak. Say it is not so.” “ I shall tell you nothing. You have no right to ask me. What is there to prevem my marrying whom I choose? Have you so soon forgotten that last nightyou â€"]ill’.ed me ‘1" She speaks bitterly. and turns from him with an unlovely laugh. “ Molly," cries the young man, in low tones, full of passion, catching her hand, all the vio- lent emotion he has been so painfully strivâ€" ing to suppress since her entrance breaking loose now, “ listen to me for one moment. Do not kill me. My whole heart is bound up in you. You are too young to be so cruel. Darl- ing, I was mad when I deemed I could live without you. I have been mad ever since that fatal hour last night. Will you forgive me ? Will you ‘1” r “ Let my hand go, Mr. Luttrell,” says the girl, with a. quick. dry sob. Is it anger, or grief, 01‘ pride ? “ You had me once, and you would not keep me. You shall never again have the chance of throwing me over ; be as- sured of that.” She draws her fingers from his burning clasp. and once more turns away, with her eyeS'bent carefully upon the carpet. lest he shall notice the tears that threaten to over- flow them. She walks remlulcly but slowly past where he is standing, wioh folded arms, leaning against the wall, tomuds the door. Jusilaé her fingers close on Lhe handle she becomes aware of footsteps on the outside coming leiguz ‘3 rtowgrdghey. Instinctiw‘.) she shrinks backward, casts a hasty, horrified glance at her dressing~gown, her bare feet. her loosened hair; then, with a movement full of confidence mingled with fear, she hastens back to Luttrell (who to; has heard the disconcerting sound), and glances up at him appealingly. u “ Then; is somebe'd‘y coming,” she breathes, in gterrified whisper. The footsteps éome nearerâ€"nearer still ; they reach the very threshold, and then pause. Will their owner come in ? In the fear and agony and doubt of the moment, Molly lays her two white hands upon her bosom and stands listening intentâ€" ly, with wideâ€"open gleaming eyes, too fright- ened to move or make any attempt at con- cealment ; while Luttrell, although alarmed for her, cannot Withdraw his gaze from her lovely face. Someboxly’s hand steals along the door as though searching for the handle. With reâ€" newed hope Luttrell instantly blows out both the candles near him, reducing the room to utter darkness, and draws Molly behind the windowâ€"curtains. There is a breathless pause. The door opens slowlyâ€"slowly. With a gasp that can almost be heard, Molly puts out one hand in the darkness and lays it heavily upon Lut- trell’s arm. His fingers close over it. “ Bush I not a word.” whispers he. “ Oh, I am so frightened l" returns she. His heart begun to beat madly. To feel her so close to him, although only through un- wished for accident. is dangerously sweet. By a supreme effort he keeps himself from taking her in his arms and giving her one last embrace ; but honor, the hour. the situa- tion, all alike forbid. So he only tightens his clasp upon her hand and smothers a. sigh be- tween his lips. Whoever the intruder may be, he, she. or it is without light; no truth-compelling my ilâ€" lumines the gloom; and presently. after a slight hesitation, the door is closed again, and the footsteps go lightly, cautiously away through the hall, leaving them once more alone in the long, dark, ghostly drawing- ruom. Molly draws her hand hurriedly away, and moving quietly from Luttrell’s side, breathes a sigh, half relief, half embarrassment ; while he, groping his way to the writing-table, finds a match, and, striking it, throws light upon the scene again. At the same moment Molly emerges from the curtams, with a heightened color, and eyes, sweet but shamed, that positively refuse to meet his. " I suppose I can trust youâ€"toâ€"say nothâ€" ing of all this ?" she murmurs, nnsteadily. “ I suppose you can.” Haughtily. His heart is still throbbing passionately ; al- most, he fears, each separate beat can be heard in the oppressive stillness. “ Good-night,” says Molly. slowly. “ Good-night." Shyly, and still without meeting his gaze, she holds out her hand. He takes it, softly, reverently, and, emboldened by the gentleness of her expression, says, impulsively : "‘ Answer me a last question, darlingâ€"mn- swer me. Are you going to marry Philip?” And she answers, also impulsively: I. No.” His face changes; hope once more shines within his blue eyes. Involuntarin he draws up his tall, slight figure toits full height, with a. glad gesture that bespeaks returning confi- dence ; then he glances longingly first at Mol- ly’s downcast f we, then at the small hand that lies trembling in his own. “ May I?" T19 asks, and, receiving no denial, stoops and kisses it warmly once, twice, thrice, with fervent devotion. “ My dear, how long you have been 1” says Cecil, when at length Molly returns to her room. “ I thought you were never coming. Where have you been ?" “ In the dryawing-room; and oh, Cecil! he was there. And he would keep me, asking me qugstion after quegtiop.’_’ “ I dare say,” says Cecil, looking her over. “ That blue negligee is tremendously becom- ing. No doubt he has still a good many more questions he would like to put to you. And you call yourself a nice, decorous, well-behaved “ Don’t be silly. You have yet to hear the decorous and thrilling part of my tale. Just as we were in the middle of a most animated discussion. what do you think happened 7 Somebody actually came to the door and tried to open it. In an instant Tedcastle blew out both our candles and drew me behind the cur- tains.” “ Curiouser and curiouser," saidCecil. “ I begin to think I’m in Wonderland. Go on. The plot thickens; the impropriety deepens. It grows more interesting at every word.” ‘-" The somebody, whéever it 'was, opened the door. looked illâ€"fortunately without a light, and we might have been discoveredâ€"- “ You fainted, of course?” says Cecil, who is consumed with laughter. “ Tut I nonsense. I think nothing of you. Such a golden opportunity thrown away I In your place I should haye been senseless in' half a, minute in Tedcastle‘s arms.” - “ No, indeed,” ansi‘vers Mon ' K‘ I neither ‘ ) faulted nor screamed.” 1“ Forgive my stupidity; I only'turnéd and caught hold of Teddy’s arm, and held him as though I never meant to let him go.’_’ ‘ “ f'erhaps that was your secret“ wish, were RICHMOND HILL, THURSDAY, AUGUST 21, 1879. the truth known. Molly, you are Wiser than I am. What is a. paltry fainting fit to the touch of a soft, warm hand ? _Go 911.? “ Well, the invader, when he had gazed into space, withdrew again, leaving us to our own devices. Cecil, if we had been discov- ered! I in my dressing-gown ! Not all the waters of the Atlantic would have saved me from censure. I never was so terrified. Who could it have been 2” " ‘Ohl 'twas I, love ; Wandering by, love.’ ” declares Cecil, going off into a. perfect peril of laughter. “ Never, never have I been so en- tertained! And so I frightened you? Well, be comforted. I was terrified in my turn by your long,r abSence ; so much so that, without a candle, I crept down-stairs, stole along the hall, and looked into the drawing-room. See- ing no oneI I retreated. and gained my own room as fast as I could. Oh, how sorry I am I did not know! Consider your feelings had I stolen quietly towards your hiding-place step by step i A splendid situation absolutely thrown away.” " You ana Mr. Potts ought to ,be brother and sister, you both revel so in the bare idea. of mischief." sVayerqlly, laughing tog. _ And then Cecil, declaring it is all hours, turns her out of her room, and presently sleep falls and settles upon Horst and all m; inmates. Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoax, Movlg fly mint heart with grief but with de- 1% Np Ignore, 0 never more.”â€"SnRLLEI/. It 15 Just two o’clock, and Sunday. They have all been to church. They have strug- gled mantully through their prayers. They have chanted adepressing psalm or two to the most tuneless of ancient ditties. They have even sat out an incomprehensible ser- mon with polite gravity and many a weary vawn. ' The day is dull. So is the rector. So is the curateâ€"unuttrerablryi so. Service over, they file out again into the open cut in solemn silence, though at heart glad as children who break school, and wmd their way back to Herst through the dismanâ€" tled wood. The trees are nearly naked; 9. short, sad, consumptive wind is soughing through them. The grassâ€"what remains of itâ€"ie brown, of an unpleasant hue. No flowers smile up at them as they pass quietly along. The sky is leaden. There is a general air of despondeney over everything. It is a day laid aside for dis- mal reflection; a day on whichhateful “ might have beens" crop up. for “ melancholy has marked it for its own.” Yet just as they come to a turn in the park two magpies (harbingers of good when coupled; messengers of evil when apart) fly past them directly across their path. “ Two for joy,” cries Molly, gravely, glad of any interruption to her depressing thoughts. “ I saw them first. The luck is mine.” “ I think I saw them first," says Sir Penâ€" thony, with no object beyond a laudable de- sire to promote argument. ‘ “ Now, how could you 7” says Molly. “ I am quite twenty yards ahead of you, and must have seen them come round this corner first. Now, what shall I get, I wonder ? Something worth getting, I do hope.” “ Blessed are they that expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointefi," ‘ “Says Mr. Potts, moodily, who is as gloomy as the day. “ I expect nothing.” “ You are iealous,” retotts Molly. “ Sour grapes.” Making a. small moue at him. “ But you have no claim upon this luck ; it is all my own. Let nobody for a moment look upon as his or here.” “ You are welcome to it ; Idon‘t envy you,” says Cecil, little thinking how poetic are her words. They continue their walk and their inter- rupted thoughtsâ€"the latter leading them in all sorts of contrary directionsâ€"-some to love, some to hate, some to cald game-pie and dry champagne. As thgy enter the hall at Herst one of the footmen steps fcrward and hands Molly an ugly y9110w_ envqlope. ‘ v‘rWhy, here is iny luck, perhaps!” cries she, gayly. “ How soon it has come! Now, What can be in it ? Let us all guressi” She is surprised, and her cheeks have flushed a little. Her face is full of laughter. Her sweet eyes wander from one to another, asking them to join in her amusement. No thought, no faintest suspicion of the awful truth occurs to her, although only a thin piece of paper conceals it from her View. “ A large fortune, perhaps,” says Sir Pen- thony; while the others close round her, laughing too. Only Luttrell stands apart, calmly indifferent. “ I think I would at once accept a, man who proposed to me by telegraph,” says Molly. with pretty affectation. ” It would show such flat- tering hasteâ€"such a desire for a kind reply. Remember"â€"With her finger under the lap of the envelopeâ€"“ if the last surmise proves cer- 1'ect, I have almost said yes.” V “ O} a proposal. That would just suit the mph} t_in_1e_s 131 whjgh We live.” “ W111 it soon bevday?” she asks Cecil al- ‘most every half-hon: With a fierce impatience -â€"â€"-her entire beifig ~fq‘rll‘oi’buf: one idea; which is to reach her home as seen as possible. And again: “ If I had not fainted I might have ‘ been there now. Why did I miss that train ? She breaks open the'paper, and, smiling stillfldaintirly unfolflg the enclqsure. > What a féw words! two or three strokes of the pen. Yet what achange they make in the beautiful, debonnairercountenance l Btack Gray as death grows her face; her body turns to stone. So altered is she in this brief space, that when she raises her head some shrink away from her, and some cry out. as ink theylstand out beneath her stricken eyes. Oh, cruel hand that penned them so abruptly! _ “ Corie home at once. Make no delay. Your brother is dead.” “ 0h, Molly ! what is it ‘1’” asks Lady Staf- ford, panicstricken, seizing her by the arm ; while Luttrell, scarcely less White than the girl herself, comes unconsciously forward. v Molly’s a'rms fall to her side the telegram flutters to the floor. “ He is dead," she says, again, in a rather higher, shriller voice, receiving no response from the awed group that surround her. Their silence evidently puzzles her. Her large eyes wander helplessly over all their faces, until at length they fall on Luttrell’s. Here they rest, knowing she has found one that loves her. " My brother is dead," she says, in a slow. unmqaning tape}. _ “ Teddy~Teddy 1” she cries, in an agonized tone of desolation; then, throwng up her arms wildly tOwards heaven, as though im- ploring pity, she falls forward senseless into his outstretched arms. All through the night Cecil Stafford stays with:her, soothing and caressing her as best she can. But all her soothing and caressing falls on barren soil. Up and down the room throughout the weary hours walksMoliy, praying, longing for the daylight ; asking impatiently every now and than if it ‘:‘ will never come.” Surely on earth there is no greater cross .to heat than the passive one of waiting when distress and love cull loudly for assistance. Her eyes are dry and tea‘rless, her whole body burns like fire with a. dull and throbbing heat. 7 She is compoged but_ restlgss. __ I " Death is here. and death is there ; Death is busy everywhere; All around, Within, beneath, Above is deathâ€"and we are death. CHAPTER XXVII. wyy did ypu let me faint ?” Iii vain' Cecil strives to comfort ; no thought comes to her but a mad craving for the busy day. At last it comes, slowly, sweetly. The gray dawn deepens into rose, the sun flings abroad its young and chilly beams upon‘ the earth. It is the opening of a. glorious morn. How often have we noticed in our hours of direct grief how it is then Nature chooses to deck herself in all her fairest and best, as though to mock us with the very gayety and splendor of her charms I At half-past seven an early train is start- ing. Long before that time she is dressed, with her hat and jacket on, fearful lest by any delay she should miss it ; _and when at length the carriage is brought round to the door she runs swiftly down the stairs to meet it. “ Are yau going to‘o 1”; Cecil asks, in awhis- per,_gnly half surpriafd.»_‘ ~ “'Yes: of coursé. I will take her myself to Brooklyn}: “I might have known you would,” Cecil says, kindly, and then she kisses Molly, who hardly returns the caress, and puts her into the carriage, and, pressing Luttrell’s hand warmly, watches them untll they are driven out of her sight. ' In the hall below, awaiting her, stands Lut- trell, ready to accompanygxetf: During all the long drive not one word does Molly utter. Neither does Luttrell, whose heart is bleeding for her. She takes no notice of him, expresses no surprise at his being with her. At the station he takes her ticket, through bribery obtains an empty carriage, and, plac- ing a. rug round her, seats himself at the farthest end of the compartment from herâ€" so little does he seek to intrude upon her grief. And yet she takes no heed of him. He might, indeed, be absent, or the veriest stranger, so little does his presence seem to affect her. Leaning rather forward, with her hands clasped upon her knees, she scarcely stirs or raises her head threughont the journey, except to go from carriage to train, from train back again to carriage. vOnce, durinzvtheir short drive from the sta- tion to Brooklyn, moved by compassion, he ventures to address her. “ I wish you could cry, my poor darling," he says, tenderly, taking her hand and fond- ling betweer; _his owp. _ " Tears could not help me.” she answers. And then, as though aroused by his voice, she says. uneasily ; “ why are you here ‘2” “ Because I am his friend andâ€"yours,” he returns, gently, making allowance for her small show of irritation. “ True," she says, and no more. Five min L1th aftprwards tpey _r_each Brooklyn: The door stands wide open. All the world could have entered unrebuked into that silent hall. What need now for bats and bolts? When the Great Thief has entered in and stolen from them their best, what heart have they to guard against lesser thefts ? Luttrell follows Molly into the house, his face no whit less white than her own. A great pain is tugging at himâ€"a pain that is almost an agony. For what greater suffering is there than to watch with unavailing sympathy the anguish of those we love? He touches her lightly on the arm to rouse her, for she has stood stock-still in the very middle of the hull â€"whether through awful fear, or grief, or sudden bitter memory, her heart knoweth. u “ You still here 1" she says, awaking from her thoughts, with a shiver. “ I thought you gone. Why do yon stay 2 I only ask to be alone." ‘ “ I shall go in a few minutes." he pleads. “ when I have seen you safe with Mrs. Masse- recne. I am afraid for you. Suppose you shouldâ€"supposeâ€"you do not even knowâ€"the room," he winds up, desperately. “ Let me guard you against such an awful surprise as that.” “I do.” she answers, pointing, with a shudder, to one room farther on that branches of} the hall. “Itâ€"is there. Leave me; I shall be better by myself.” dently. “ No ; I shall see no one tumbn‘ow." “ Nevertheless I shall call to know how you are," he says, persistently, and, kissing one of her limp little handghdepartg. a fl_6lfilifiiaie]0n fhe gravel'he 'meeta the old man who for years has had care of the garden and general_ outdoog Voik'at Byoqklyx}. u “ It is a terrible thing, sir,” this ancient in- dividual saysltouching his hat to Luttrell, who had been rather a. favorite with him dur- ing his stay last summer. He speaks with- out being addressed, feeling as though the sad catastrophe that has occurred has levelled some of the etiquette existing between master and men. 1'; Fféirible indeed." And then, in a low tone, “ how did it happen 7’_’ “ ‘Twas just this.” says the old man, who is faithful, and has understood for many years most of John Massereene’s affairs, having lived with him from boy to man; “ ‘twas money that did it. He had invested all he had, as it might be, and he lot it, and the shock went to his heart and killed him. Poor soul! poor soul I" 777D'iréease of the heart. Who would have suspected it? And he has lost all. Surely somgthjng remaihs T: “ Only a few hundreds, sir, as I hearâ€" nothing to signifyâ€"for the poor mistress and the wee bits. It is a fearful thing, sir, andbad to think of. And there’s Miss Molly, too. I never could abide them spickilations, as they're called." “ Poor John Massereene I” says Luttrell, taking off his hat. “He meant no harm to any oneâ€"least of all those who were nearest to his kindly heart.” “ Ay, ay. man and boy I knew him. He was always kind and true was the masterâ€" with no two ways about him. When the let- ter came as told him all was gone, and that only beggary‘was More him, he said nothing, only went away to his study dazed like, an‘ read it, an’ read it, and then fell down heart- broken upon the floor. Dead he wasâ€"atone dead â€"afore any of us came to him. The poor missia it was as found him first.” 1: ,, In. V _ w-“ " It is too horrible,” snys Luttrell, shudder- ing. He nods his head to the old man, and walks away from him down to the village inn. depressed and saddened. n The gardener‘s news has been worse than even he anticipated. To be bereft of their dearest is bad enough, but to be thrown pen- niless on the‘mercies of the cold and cruelâ€" nuy, rather thoughtlessâ€"world is surely an aggravation of their misery. Death at all times is a calamity ; but when it leaves the mourners Without actual means of support, how much sadder a thing it isl To know one‘s comforts shall remain unimpaired after the loss of one’s beloved isâ€"in spite of an indignant denialâ€"a. solace to the most mourn- ful l “ As the earth when leaves are dead, As the night when sleep is sped, As the heart when joy is fled, I am left uloneâ€"alone.â€"SHELLEY. Meantime, Molly, having listened vaguely and without interest, yet with a curious in- tentness, to his parting footfalls, as the last one dies away draws herself up and, with a. sigh or tvée, moves instinctively towards the door she liad pointed out to_I_Ju>tt1_rell. No one has told her, no hint has reached her ears. h It is not his usual bedroom, yet she knows that Within that door lies all that remains to her of the brother so fondly loved. With slow and lagging steps, with bent head and averted eyes, she creeps tardin Molly," says her lover, “ let me go with Véilagliréée yBu ta-morrow ?”he says, diffi- CHAPTER. XXVIII. near, resting with her hand upon the lock to summon courage to meet what must be be- fore her. Shefieels faintâ€"sick with a bodily sicknessâ€"for never yet has she come face to face with death. Letitia [is seated upon the floor beside the bed, her head lowered, her hands folded tight- ly in her lap‘ There is no appearance of mourning so far as garments are concerned. Of course, considering the shortness of the time, it would be impossible ; yet it seems odd, out of keeping, that she should still be wearing that soft blue serge, which is associ- ated with so many happy hours. At last, bringing her teeth firmly together, and closing her eyes, by an immense effort she compels herself to turn the handle of the door and enters. She is not weeping ; there are no traces. however faint, of tears. Her cheeks look a little thinner, more haggard, and she has lost the delicate girlish color that was her chief charm; but her eyes, though black circles surround themâ€"so black as to suggest the appliance of artâ€"have an unnatural bril- liancy that utterly precludes the possibility of crying. Some one pulled a piece of the blind to one side, and a fitful gleam of sunlight, that dances in n. heartleSs manner, flickers in ‘and out of the room, nay. even strays in its ghast- ly mirth across the bed where the poor body lies. As Molly walks, or rather drags he'r limbs after her, into the chamber (so deadly is the terror that has seized upon her), Letitia slow- ly raises her eyes. She evinces no surprise at her sister’s hem omipg. ” There is all that is left you,” she says, in a hard, slow voice, that makes Molly shiver, turning her head in the direction of the bed, and opening and shutting her hands with a peculiarly expressive, empty gesture. After- wards she goes back to her original position. her face bent downwards, her body swaying gently to and fro. ‘ Reluctantly, with trembling steps and hidden eyes, Molly forces hemelf to approach the dreaded spot. For the first time she is about to "100k on our undying foeâ€"to make acquaintance with the last great change of 3.11. A cold hand has closed upon her heart ; she is consumed by an awesome unconquerable shrinking. She feels a. difliculty in breathing; almost she thinks her senses are about to de- sert her. As 9119 reaches the side of the bed opposite to where Letitia crouches, she compels her- self to look, and for the moment sustains a paasmnate feeling of relief, as the white sheet that covers all alone meets her gaze. And yet not all. A second later. and a dread more awful than the first overpowérs her; for there, beneath the fair, pure linen shroud, the features are clearly marked, the form can be traced; she can nasure herself of the shape of the headâ€"the noseâ€"the hands folded so qui- etly, so obediently, in their last eternal sleep, upon the cold breast. But no faintest breath- ing stirs them. He is dead 1 Her eyes grow to this fearful thing. To steady herself she lays her hand upon the back of a chair. Not for all the world con- tains would she lean upon that bed, lest by any. chance she should disturb the quiet; sleeper. The other hand she puts out in trembling silence t9 raise a corner of the sheet. “ I cannot," she groans aloud, withdrawing her fingers shudderingly. But no one heeds. Three times she essays to throw back the coven’ng. to gaze upon her dead, and fails ; and then at last the deed is accomplished, and death in all its silent majesty lies smiling be- fore has. _ ‘ Is it John ? Yes, it is, of course. And yetâ€" is it? Oh, the changelesa sweetness of the smileâ€"the terrible shadingâ€"the movelesa se renity ! Spell-bound, heartbroken she gazes at him for a minute, and then hastily, though with the tenderest reverence, she hides away his face. A heavy, bursting sigh escapes her ; she raises her head, and becomes conflious that Letitia is upon her knees, and is staring at her fixedly across the bed. aubout her an expression that is al- mosh wild in its surprispfinduhqrror. "You do not cry either." she says, in a clear, intense whisper. “ I thought I was the only thing on earth so unnatural. I have not wept. I have not lost my senses. I can still think. I have lost} my all-my husbandâ€" John ! and yet I have not shed one single tear. And you, Mollyâ€"be loved you so dear- ly, and I fancied you loved him, tooâ€"â€" and still you are as cold, as poor a creature as my- self.” There is no reply. Molly is regarding her speechlessly. In trutn‘she is dumb from sheer misery and the remembrance of what she has just seen. Are Letitia's words true ? Is she heartless ? There is a long silenceâ€"how long neither of them ever knowsâ€"and then something happens that achieves what all the despair and sorrow have failed in doing. In the house, through it, awakening all the silence, rings a peal of childish laughter. It echoes ; it seems to shake the very walls of the death- chamber. Both the women start violently. Molly, raising her hands to her head, falls back against; the wall nearest to her, unutterable honor in her face. Letitia, with a quick. sharp cry, springs to her feet, and then, run- ning to Molly, flings her arms around her. “UMolly, Many,” she exclaims,wild1y. H am I going mad? That cannotâ€"it cannot be his child.” Then they cling to each other in silent ag- ony, until at length some cruel band around their hearts gives way, and the sorrowful, healing. blessed tears spring forth. milileul'aatrsad scene isoneF; the curtain has fallen. The final separation has taken place. Their dead has been buried out of their_sight. The room in which he lay has been thrown open. the blinds raised, the windows lifted. Through them the sweet, fresh Wind comes rushing in. The heartless sunâ€"now grown cold and wintryâ€"has sent some of its rays to peer curiously where so lately the body lay. The childxeu are growing more demonstra- tive ; more frequently, and with less fear of reproof. the sound of their mirth is heard throughout the silent house. Only this very morning the boy Lovett~the eldest born, his father’s idolâ€"went whistling through the hall. No doubt it was in a, moment of for- getfulness he did it ; no doubt the poor lad checked himself an instant later, with a bitter pang of self-reproach ; but his mother heard him, and the sound smote her to the heart. Mr. Buscarlet (who is a. kind little man in spite of his ways and his manners and a few eccentricities of speech) at a word from Molly comes to Brooklyn, and, having carefully ex- amined letters, papers, and affairs generally, turns their fears into unhappy certainty. One thousand pounds is all that remains to them on which to live or starve. The announcement of their ruin is hardly news to Letitia. She has been prepared for it. The letter found eiuuhed in her dead hus- band’s hand, although suppressing half the truth, did not deceive her. Even at that aw- ful moment she quite realized her position. Not so Molly. With all the unreasoning trust of youth she hoped against hope until it was no longer possible to do so, trying to believe that something forgotten would come to light, some unremembered sum, to relieve them from absolute want. But Mr. Buscarlet’s search has proved ineffective. Now, however, when hope is actually at an end, all her natural self-rel lance and bravery r'eturn to her; and in the very mouth of de's: pair she' makes a way for herself, and for those whom she loves ‘ to escape. WHOLE NO.1,099â€"N0, 11; Xfyte};§v;fi§éhfs’ w akeful heéitution, shrink- “ I shall not be disheartened by rebufis ; I shall not fail,” says Molly. intently. “ How- ever cold and ungenerous the world may prove, I shall conquer it at last. Victory shall stay with me.” mg, doubt, and fear, slge erma 9. resolution, from which she never afterwards. turns, agidé’ until comgglle‘gl‘ to go gap by llllgqstgfainuble “ My dear young lady, how ? You Withâ€"- ahem!â€"you must excuse me if I sayâ€"your .. youth and beauty, how do you propose to earn your bread 2?" o “ It is my secret as yet," with a faint, wan smile; “ let me keep it a. little longer. Not even Mrs. Massereene knows of it. Indeed, it is too soon to proclaim my design. People might scoff it; though for all that I shall work itout. And something tells me I shall suc- ceed.” circumstafiibfilfifi} . V ' . fl ‘ 3‘5 , _ “ It is a very» distressingmegklmw Jun. Buscarlet, blowing his nose oppressivelyâ€"the more so that he feels for her very sincerely ; “ Aistreseing indeed; I don’tjmow one half so ul'llicting. I really do-notâ€"aee what is to be done." “ Do not think me presumptuous if I say I do,” says Molly. “ I have a. plan already formed; and if it succeeds I shall at least be able to earn bread for us all." “ Yes, yes, we all think we shall succeed when young," says the old lawyer, sadly, moved to keenest compassion at sight of the beautiful. earnest face before him. “ It is later on, when we are faint and weary with the bufi'etings of fortune, the sad awakening comes.” “ I have no time for huts and ifs." she in- terrupts him, gently. “ My grandfather may be kindly disposed towards me, but not to- wards mineâ€"and that counts for 11111011 more. No, I must fall back upon myself alone. I have quite made up my mind,” says Molly, throwing up her small. proud head, with 9. proud smile, “ and the knowledge makes me more courageous. ' I feel so strong to do, so determined to vanquish all obstacles, that I know I shall neither break down nor fail.” “Well, well, I would not discourage any one. There are none so worthy of praise as those who seek to work out their own inde- pendence, Whether they live or die in the struggle. But workâ€"of the sort you meanâ€"â€" is hard for one so young. You have a. plan. Well, so have I. But have you never thought of your grandfather? He is very kindly dis- posed towards you; and if heâ€"-â€"” “ I trust not, my dear ; I trust 1101;. You havq my best wishes, 913 lgast.” V 7“ Think you." sayé Molly, pressing his kind old hand. _ , , “ I min would follow love, if that could be.” ~TENNY30N. Letitia in her Widowed garments, looks par- ticularly handsome. All the trappings and the signs of woe suit well her tall, full figure, her hair and placid face. Molly looks taller, alenderer than usual in her mourning robes. She is one of those who grow slight quickly under affliction. Her rounded cheeks have fallen in and show sad hollows ; her eyes are larger, darker, and show beneath them great purple lines born of many tears. She has not seen Luttrell since her return homeâ€"although Letitia has â€"â€"-and rarely asks for him. Her absorbing grief appears to haVe swallowed up all other emotions. She has not once left the house. She works little, she does not read at all; she is fast falling into a. set- tled melancholy. ' “Molly,” says Letitia, “ Tedcastle is in the drawing-room. He particularly asked to see you. Do not refuse him again. Even though your engagement, as you say, is at an end, still remember, dearest, how kind. how more than thoughtful, he has been in many ways sinceâ€"of lateâ€"” Her voice breaks. “ Yes, yes, I willsee him.” Molly gays, wearily, and, rising, wends her way slowly, reluctantly, to the room which contains her lover. At sight of him some chords that have lain hushed and forgotten in her heart for many days come to life again. Her pulses throb, a1- beit languidly, her color deepens ; a some; thing that is almost gladness ’awakes Within hex, . {final how human are we all, how shortrhved our keenest regrets 1‘ -:Â¥$§'éh‘~tt-:r’ living love so near her she for the first time (though only for a moment) forgets the dead 0110 . In her trailing, sombre dress, with her sor- rowful white cheeks, and quivering lips. she goes up to him and places her hand in his ; while he. touched with a. mighty compassion, stares at her, marking with v. lover’s careful eye all the many alterations in her face. So much havoc in so short a time I “ How changed you arel How you must have suffered 1” he says. tenderly. » “ I have," she an“ era, and then grows nervous, because of her trouble and the‘ flut- tering of her heart, and that tears of late are so ready to her. she covers her face with her hands, and. with the action of a. tired and saddened child, turnfng, hides it still more effectually upon his breast. W‘i‘rlrtrrié all Avery miserable,” he says, after a. pauset opqupied it} trying {:0 soothe. “ Ah I is it not? What trouble can be com- pared with it ? To find him dead, without a. word, a parting sign 1” She sighs heavily. “ The bitterth sting of all lies in the fact that but for my own selfishness I might have seen him again. Had I returned heme as I prom- ised at the end of the month I should have. met my brother living; but instead I lingered on, enjoying myself"â€"â€"with a. shudderâ€" “ while he was slowly breakinghis heart over his growing difficulties. It must all have happened during this last month. He had no care on his mind when I left him ; you know that. You remember how light-hearted he was, how kindly. how good to all." “ He was, indeed, poorâ€"poor fellow l” “ And some have dared to blame him,” she says, in a pained whisper. “ You do she as not 7” “ No-no.” “ I have been calculating,” she goes on, in a distressed tone, “ and the very night I was dancing so frivolously at that horrible ball he must have been lying awake here waiting with a sick heart for the news that was tQâ€"kill him. I shall never go to a ball again ; I shall never dance again,” says Molly, with a passionate sob. scorning, as youth will,ihe power of time to cure. . â€"England educates her artillery and en- gineer officers at Woolwich. nine miles east southeast of London, Where a royal dock was established as far back as the reign of Henry VIII., the Royal Harry having been built there in 1512. The artilery headquarters Were not established until the close ofjhe last. century, the royal Arsenal having been placed there some years before. 'The cost for a civllian’s son at Woolwich is al- together about 31,000 a year. for the son of an officer much less, and for the son of - one killed in action the charge is little more than nominal. Cavalry and infantry oflicers of the line receive their ebuention at Sand- hurst, which stands on a heath in Surrey, about 20 miles from London. " Darling, why should you blame yourself ? Such thoughts are morbid," says Luttrell, fondly caressing the bright. hair that still lies loosely against his arm. “Which of us can see into the future ! And, if we could, do you think it would add to our happiness? Shake off such depressing ideas. They will injure not only your mind but your body.” [To BE CONTINUEDJ â€"The British revenue returns reflect the times. Unmanufactured tobacco fell off nearly two million pounds ; tea increased by six and a-hali million pounds; wine decreased one and a-half million gallons; brandy, nearly one hundred and eighty-two million gallons. The consumption of tea. and c icon. has largely and steadily increased of late years. ‘ ‘ â€"-A Russian physician, struck by the "com- monness of near sight among literary men, proposes to .print books with white ink on black paper as "a remedy. ' w â€"â€"A fortuneâ€"teller, known as “ Metta," died recently in Vienna, leaving $40,000 and the business to her daughter. CHAPTER XXIX.