o thought, no faintest suspicion of the
awful truth occurs to her, although only a thin piece of paper conceals
it from her view.

"A large fortune, perhaps," says Sir Penthony; while the others close
round her, laughing, too. Only Luttrell stands apart, calmly
indifferent.

"Or a proposal. That would just suit the rapid times in which we live."

"I think I would at once accept a man who proposed to me by telegraph,"
says Molly, with pretty affectation. "It would show such flattering
haste,--such a desire for a kind reply. Remember,"--with her finger
under the lap of the envelope,--"if the last surmise proves correct I
have almost said yes."

She breaks open the paper, and, smiling still, daintily unfolds the
enclosure.

What a few words!--two or three strokes of the pen. Yet what a change
they make in the beautiful, _debonnaire_ countenance! Black as ink
they stand out beneath her stricken eyes. Oh, cruel hand that penned
them so abruptly!

"Come home at once. Make no delay. Your brother is dead."

Gray as death grows her face; her body turns to stone. So altered is
she in this brief space, that when she raises her head some shrink away
from her, and some cry out.

"Oh, Molly! what is it?" asks Lady Stafford, panic-stricken, seizing
her by the arm; while Luttrell, scarcely less white than the girl
herself, comes unconsciously forward.

Molly's arms fall to her sides; the telegram flutters to the floor.

"My brother is dead," she says, in a slow, unmeaning tone.

"He is dead," she says again, in a rather higher, shriller voice,
receiving no response from the awed group that surrounds her. Their
silence evidently puzzles her. Her large eyes wander helplessly over
all their faces, until at length they fall on Luttrell's. Here they
rest, knowing she has found one that loves her.

"Teddy--Teddy!" she cries, in an agonized tone of desolation; then,
throwing up her arms wildly toward heaven, as though imploring pity,
she falls forward senseless into his outstretched arms.

* * * * *

All through the night Cecil Stafford stays with her, soothing and
caressing her as best she can. But all her soothing and caressing falls
on barren soil.

Up and down the room throughout the weary hours walks Molly, praying,
longing for the daylight; asking impatiently every now and then if it
"will never come." Surely on earth there is no greater cross to bear
than the passive one