on to Brooklyn, moved
by compassion, he ventures to address her.

"I wish you could cry, my poor darling," he says, tenderly, taking her
hand and fondling it between his own.

"Tears could not help me," she answers. And then, as though aroused by
his voice, she says, uneasily, "Why are you here?"

"Because I am his friend and--yours," he returns, gently, making
allowance for her small show of irritation.

"True," she says, and no more. Five minutes afterward they reach
Brooklyn.

The door stands wide open. All the world could have entered unrebuked
into that silent hall. What need now for bars and bolts? When the Great
Thief has entered in and stolen from them their best, what heart have
they to guard against lesser thefts?

Luttrell follows Molly into the house, his face no whit less white than
her own. A great pain is tugging at him,--a pain that is almost an
agony. For what greater suffering is there than to watch with
unavailing sympathy the anguish of those we love?

He touches her lightly on the arm to rouse her, for she has stood
stock-still in the very middle of the hall,--whether through awful
fear, or grief, or sudden bitter memory, her heart knoweth.

"Molly," says her lover, "let me go with you."

"You still here?" she says, awaking from her thoughts, with a shiver.
"I thought you gone. Why do you stay? I only ask to be alone."

"I shall go in a few minutes," he pleads, "when I have seen you safe with
Mrs. Massereene. I am afraid for you. Suppose you should--suppose--you
do not even know--_the_ room," he winds up, desperately. "Let me
guard you against such an awful surprise as that."

"I do," she answers, pointing, with a shudder, to one room farther on
that branches off the hall. "It--is there. Leave me; I shall be better
by myself."

"I shall see you to-morrow?" he says, diffidently.

"No; I shall see no one to-morrow."

"Nevertheless, I shall call to know how you are," he says,
persistently, and kissing one of her limp little hands, departs.

Outside on the gravel he meets the old man who for years has had care
of the garden and general out-door work at Brooklyn.

"It is a terrible thing, sir," this ancient individual says, touching
his hat to Luttrell, who had been rather a favorite with him during his
stay last summer. He speaks without being addressed, feeling as though
the sad catastrophe that has occurred has leveled some of the etiquette
existing between master and man.

"Terr