of waiting when distress and love call loudly for
assistance.

Her eyes are dry and tearless; her whole body burns like fire with a
dull and throbbing heat. She is composed but restless.

"Will it soon be day?" she asks Cecil, almost every half hour, with a
fierce impatience,--her entire being full of but one idea, which is to
reach her home as soon as possible.

And again:

"If I had not fainted I might have been there now. Why did I miss that
train? Why did you let me faint?"

In vain Cecil strives to comfort; no thought comes to her but a mad
craving for the busy day.

At last it comes, slowly, sweetly. The gray dawn deepens into rose, the
sun flings abroad its young and chilly beams upon the earth. It is the
opening of a glorious morn. How often have we noticed in our hours of
direst grief how it is then Nature chooses to deck herself in all her
fairest and best, as though to mock us with the very gayety and
splendor of her charms!

At half-past seven an early train is starting. Long before that time
she is dressed, with her hat and jacket on, fearful lest by any delay
she should miss it; and when at length the carriage is brought round to
the door she runs swiftly down the stairs to meet it.

In the hall below, awaiting her, stands Luttrell, ready to accompany
her.

"Are you going, too?" Cecil asks, in a whisper, only half surprised.

"Yes, of course. I will take her myself to Brooklyn."

"I might have known you would," Cecil says, kindly, and then she kisses
Molly, who hardly returns the caress, and puts her into the carriage,
and, pressing Luttrell's hand warmly, watches them until they are
driven out of her sight.

During all the long drive not one word does Molly utter. Neither does
Luttrell, whose heart is bleeding for her. She takes no notice of him,
expresses no surprise at his being with her.

At the station he takes her ticket, through bribery obtains an empty
carriage, and, placing a rug round her, seats himself at the farthest
end of the compartment from her,--so little does he seek to intrude
upon her grief. And yet she takes no heed of him. He might, indeed, be
absent, or the veriest stranger, so little does his presence seem to
affect her. Leaning rather forward, with her hands clasped upon her
knees, she scarcely stirs or raises her head throughout the journey,
except to go from carriage to train, from train back again to carriage.

Once, during their last short drive from the stati