used, swept by an
infinite compassion and tenderness almost maternal in its solicitude.

Molly was sitting hunched up in a chair, her face half hidden against
her arm, every drooping line of her slight young figure bespeaking
weariness. She had taken off her hat and tossed it on to the table, and
now she had dropped into a brief, uneasy slumber born of sheer fatigue
and excitement.

"Molly!"

At the sound of Sara's voice she opened big, startled eyes and stared
incredulously.

Sara moved swiftly to her.

"Molly dear," she said, "I've come to take you home."

At that Molly started up, broad awake in an instant.

"You? How did you come here?" she stammered. Then, realization waking
in her eyes: "But I'm not coming back with you. We've only stopped for
petrol. Lester's outside, somewhere, seeing about it now. We're driving
back to the car."

"Yes, I know. But you're not going on with Mr. Kent"--very
gently--"you're coming home with us."

Molly drew herself up, flaring passionate young defiance, talking glibly
of love, and marriage, and living her own life--all the beautiful,
romantic nonsense that comes so readily to the soft lips of youth, the
beckoning rose and gold of sunrise--and of mirage--which is all youth's
untrained eyes can see.

Sara was getting desperate. The time was flying. At any moment Kent
might return. Garth signaled to her from the doorway.

"You must tell her," he said gruffly. "If Kent returns before we go, we
shall have a scene. Get her away quick."

Sara nodded. Then she came back to Molly's side.

"My dear," she said pitifully. "You can never marry Lester Kent,
because--because he has a wife already."

"I don't believe it!" The swift denial leaped from Molly's lips.

But she did believe it, nevertheless. No one who knew Sara could have
looked into her eyes at that moment and doubted that she was speaking
not only what she believed to be, but what she _knew_ to be, the ugly
truth.

Suddenly Molly crumpled up. As, between them, Garth and Sara hurried her
away to the car, there was no longer anything of the regal young goddess
about her. She was just a child--a tired, frightened child whose eyes
had been suddenly opened to the quicksands whereon her feet were set,
and, like a child, she turned instinctively and clung to the dear,
familiar people from home, who were mercifully at hand to shield
her when her whole world had suddenly grown new and strange and very
terrible. . . .