is knees,--if he were to
acknowledge every word he said to me a lie,--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?"

"Freely. But he won't forgive me."

"Have you forgiven him the first great crime of all,--his indifference
toward his bride?"

"N--o," confesses her ladyship, smiling; "not yet."

"Ah! then don't blame me. I could have killed myself when I cried,"
says Molly, referring 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; and--and--I could not help
wondering," says Molly, with a little tremble in her tone, "who next
would love him--and who--he--would love."

"I never thought you were so fond of him, dearest," says Cecil, laying
her hand softly on her friend's.

"Nor I,--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," interposes 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
yourself 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 effect.
Instead of drying her eyes and declaring herself glad that Luttrell is
unhappy, Molly grows more and more afflicted every moment.

"My dear girl," exclaims Lady Stafford, as a last resource, "do pray
think of your complexion. I 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."

"I hardly know," says Molly, with an attempt at _nonchalance_ she
is far from feeling, "I really think I cried more for my diamond than
for--my lover. However, I shall take your advice; I shall think no more
about it. To-morrow"--ri