our doing
anything of the kind. It would be a disgrace, a blot upon our name
forever. None of our family has ever been forced to work for daily
bread. And I would have you remember you are an Amherst."

"Pardon me, I am a Massereene."

"You are an Amherst." With some excitement and considerable irritation.
"Your mother must count in some way, and you--you bear a strong
resemblance to every second portrait of our ancestors in the gallery
upstairs. I wrote, therefore, to bring you here that I might personally
desire you to give up your scheme of self-support and come to live at
Herst as its mistress."

"'Its mistress'!" repeats Molly, in utter amazement. "And how about
Marcia?"

"She shall be amply portioned,--if you consent to my proposal."

She is quite silent for a moment or two, pondering slowly; then, in a
low, curious tone, she says:

"And what is to become of my sister?"

"Your step-sister-in-law, you mean." Contemptuously. "I dare say she
will manage to live without your assistance."

Molly's blue eyes here show signs of coming fight; so do her hands.
Although they hang open and motionless at her sides, there is a certain
tension about the fingers that in a quick, warm temperament betokens
passion.

"And my dead brother's children?"

"They too can live, no doubt. They are no whit worse off than if you
had never been among them."

"But I _have_ been among them," cries she, with sudden
uncontrollable anger that can no longer be suppressed. "For all the
years of my life they have been my only friends. When I was thrown upon
the world without father or mother, my brother took me and gave me a
father's care. I was left to him a baby, and he gave me a mother's
love. He fed me, clothed me, guarded me, educated me, did all that man
could do for me; and now shall I desert those dear to him? They are his
children, therefore mine. As long as I can remember, he was my true and
loving friend, while you--you--what are you to me? A stranger--a
mere----"

She stops abruptly, fearing to give her passion further scope, and,
casting her eyes upon the ground, folds one hand tightly over the
other.

"You are talking sentimental folly," replies he, coolly. "Listen. You
shall hear the truth. I ill-treated your mother, as you know. I flung
her off. I refused her prayer for help, although I knew that for months
before your birth she was enduring absolute want. Your father was in
embarrassed circumstances at that time. N