m the brilliantly-lighted
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 eyes meet his she starts, colors violently, and is for the
moment utterly abashed.

Involuntarily she glances down at the soft blue dressing-gown she
wears, over which her hair--brushed and arranged for the night--falls
in soft, rippling, gold-brown masses, and from thence to the little
naked feet that peep out shamelessly from their blue slippers.

The crimson blood rises to her face. Covered with a painful though
pretty confusion, she stands quite still, and lets her tell-tale eyes
seek the ground.

Luttrell has risen, and, without any particular design, has advanced
toward her. Perhaps the force 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 breaking the
awful silence which threatens to last until next day, so mute has Molly
grown. With a delicate sense of chivalry he endeavors to appear
oblivious of her rather scanty and disconcerting--however
becoming--costume. "But as it is, perhaps I may as well say to you what
is on my mind,--if you will permit me."

"I cannot forbid your speech." Coldly.

"I will not keep you long. But"--with a slight, almost imperceptible,
glance at her dressing-gown--"perhaps you are in a hurry?"

"I am--rather." At this juncture, had they been friends, Molly would
undoubtedly have laughed. As it is, she is profoundly serious. "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 paper,--left in the
blotting-book. If you wish 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."

"Do not fear." Coldly. "It is no longer i