er to a
sofa and seating himself beside her, with a view of drawing her from
her unhappy thoughts. "Are they as bad as Mrs. Massereene says?"

"Quite as bad."

"Then what do they mean to do?" In a tone of the deepest commiseration.

"'They'? We, you mean. What others, I suppose, have learned to do
before us--work for our daily bread."

An incredulous look comes into his eyes, but he wisely subdues it.

"And what do you propose doing?" he asks, calmly, meaning in his own
mind to humor her.

"You are like Mr. Buscarlet,--he would know everything," says Molly,
with a smile; "but this is a question you must not ask me,--just yet. I
have a hope,--perhaps I had better say an idea; and until it is
confirmed or rejected I shall tell no one of it. No, not even you."

"Well, never mind. Tell me instead when you intend leaving Brooklyn."

"In a fortnight we must leave it. Is it not a little while?--only two
short weeks in which to say good-bye forever to my home,--(how much
that word comprises!)--to the place where all my life has been
spent,--where every stone, and tree, and path is endeared to me by a
thousand memories."

"And after?"

"We go to London. There I hope to work out my idea."

"You have forgotten to tell me," says Luttrell, slowly, "my part in all
these arrangements."

"Yours? Ah, Teddy, you put an end to our engagement in good time. Now
it must have been broken, whether we liked it or not."

"Meaning that I must not throw in my lot with yours? Do you know what
folly you are talking?" says Luttrell, almost roughly. "Ours, I am
assured, is an engagement that _cannot_ be broken. Not all the
cruel words that could be spoken--that have been spoken"--in a low tone
of reproach--"have power to separate us. You are mine, Molly, as I am
yours, forever. I will never give you up. And now--now--in the hour of
your trouble----" Breaking off, he gets up from his seat and commences
to pace the room excitedly.

She has risen too, and is standing with her eyes fixed anxiously upon
him. At length, "Let us put an end now to all misconceptions and
doubts," he says, stopping before her. "Your manner that last evening
at Herst, your greeting of to-day, have led me to hope again. I would
know without further delay whether I am wrong in thinking you care more
for me than for any other man. Am I? Speak, Molly, tell me
now--here--if you love me."

"I do--I do!" cries she, bursting into tears again, and flinging
herself in