a similar refresher to
that he has prescribed for Molly.

Cecil's unfortunate encouragement of the night before--displayed more
with a view to chagrining Sir Penthony than from a mere leaning toward
coquetry--has fanned his passion to a very dangerous height. He is
consumed with a desire to speak, and madly flatters himself that there
is undoubted hope for him.

To throw himself at Lady Stafford's feet, declare his love, and ask her
to leave, for him, a husband who has never been more to her than an
ordinary acquaintance, and to renounce a name that can have no charms
for her, being devoid of tender recollections or sacred memories, seems
to him, in his present over-strained condition, a very light thing
indeed. In return, he argues feverishly, he can give her the entire
devotion of a heart, and, what is perhaps a more practical offer, a
larger income than she can now command.

Then, in the present day, what so easily, or quietly, or satisfactorily
arranged, as a divorce in high life, leaving behind it neither spot nor
scar, nor anything unpleasant in the way of social ostracism? And this
might--nay, _should_--follow.

Like Molly, he has lain awake since early dawn arranging plans and
rehearsing speeches; and now, after breakfast, as he walks beside the
object of his adoration through the shrubberies and outer walks into
the gardens beyond, carried away by the innate vanity of him, and his
foolish self-esteem, and not dreaming of defeat, he decides that the
time has come to give voice to his folly.

They are out of view of the windows, when he stops abruptly, and says
rashly,--with a pale face, it is true, but a certain amount of
composure that bespeaks confidence,--"Cecil, I can keep silence no
longer. Let me speak to you, and tell you all that is in my heart."

"He has fallen in love with Molly," thinks Cecil, wondering vaguely at
the manner of his address, he having never attempted to call her by her
Christian name before.

"You are in love?" she says, kindly, but rather uncertainly, not being
able at the moment to call to mind any tender glances of his cast at
Molly or any suspicious situations that might confirm her in her fancy.

"Need you ask?" says Lowry, taking her hand, feeling still further
emboldened by the gentleness with which she has received his first
advance. "Have not all these months--nay, this year past--taught you so
much?"

"'This year past?'" Cecil repeats, honestly at sea, and too muc