the diamond that glitters on it. "Was it a
present?"

"Of course. Where could such a 'beggar-maid' as I am get money enough
to buy such a ring?"

"Will you think me rude if I ask you the every-day name of your King
Cophetua?"

"I have no King Cophetua."

"Then tell me where you got it?"

"What a question!" Lightly. "Perhaps from my own true love. Perhaps it
is the little fetter that seals my engagement to him. Perhaps it
isn't."

"Yet you said just now----"

"About that eccentric king? Well, I spoke truly. Royalty has not yet
thrown itself at my feet. Still,"--coquettishly,--"that is no reason
why I should look coldly upon all commoners."

"Be serious, Molly, for one moment," he entreats, the look of
passionate earnestness she so much dislikes coming over his face,
darkening instead of brightening it. "Sometimes I am half mad with
doubt. Tell me the truth,--now,--here. Are you engaged? Is there
anything between you and--Luttrell?"

The spirit of mischief has laid hold of Molly. She cares nothing at all
for Shadwell. Of all the men she has met at Herst he attracts her
least. She scarcely understands the wild love with which she has
inspired him; she cannot sympathize with his emotion.

"Well, if you compel me to confess it," she says, lowering her eyes,
'there is."

"It is true, then!" cries he, rising to his feet and turning deadly
pale. "My fears did not deceive me."

"Quite true. There is a whole long room 'between me' and Mr. Luttrell
and"--dropping her voice--"_you_." Here she laughs merrily and
with all her heart. To her it is a jest,--no more.

"How a woman--the very best woman--loves to torture!" exclaims he,
anger and relief struggling in his tone. "Oh, that I dared believe that
latter part of your sentence,--that I could stand between you and all
the world!"

"'Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall,'" quotes Molly,
jestingly. "You know the answer? 'If thy heart fail thee, do not climb
at all.'"

"Is that a challenge?" demands he, eagerly, going nearer to her.

"I don't know." Waving him back. "Hear the oracle again. I feel strong
in appropriate rhyme to-night:

"'He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who fears to put it to the touch
To win or lose it all.'"

They are quite alone. Some one has given the door leading to the
adjoining apartment a push that has entirely closed it. Molly, in her
white evening gown and pale-blue ribbons, wit