ve."

"Yes, but do not say anything more to me to-day; I am tired," says
Molly, submitting to his caresses, though still a little sore at heart.

"Only one thing more," says this insatiable young man, who evidently
holds in high esteem the maxim to "strike while the iron is hot." "You
agree to a renewal of our engagement?"

"I suppose so. Although I know it is an act of selfishness on my part.
Nothing can possibly come of it."

"And if it is selfishness in you, what is it in me?" asks he, humbly.
"You know as well as I do I am no match for you, who, with your face,
your voice" (Molly winces perceptibly), "your manner, might marry whom
you choose. Yet I do ask you to wait"--eagerly--"until something comes
to our aid, to be true to me, no matter what happens, until I can claim
you."

"I will wait; I _will_ be true to you," she answers, with dewy
eyes uplifted to his, and a serene, earnest face. As she gives her
promise a little sigh escapes her, more full of content, I think, than
any regret.

After coming to this conclusion they talk more rationally for an hour
or so (a lover's hour, dear reader, is not as other hours; it never
drags; it is not full of yawns; it does not make us curse the day we
were born); and then Luttrell, by some unlucky chance, discovers he
must tear himself away.

As Molly rises to bid him good-bye, she catches her breath, and presses
her hand to her side.

"I have such a pain here," she says.

"You don't go out," says her lover, severely; "you want air. I shall
speak to Letitia if you won't take more care of yourself."

"I have not been out of the house for so long, I quite dread going."

"Then go to-morrow. If you will walk to the wood nearest you,--where
you will see no one,--I will meet you there."

"Very well," says Molly, obediently; and when they have said good-bye
for the fifth time, he really takes his departure.

How to reveal her weighty secret to Letitia troubles Molly much,--an
intimate acquaintance with her sister-in-law's character causing her to
know its disclosure will be received not only with discouragement, but
with actual disapproval. And yet--disclose it she must.

But how to break it happily. Having thought of many ways and means, and
rejected them all, she decides, with a sigh, that plain speaking will
be best.

"Letitia," she says, this very evening,--Luttrell having been gone some
hours,--"do you know Signor Marigny's address?"

She is leaning her elbo