nd sleeping, has haunted him all these past months, and will haunt him
till he dies.

She is followed by a tall woman, with a full _posee_ figure also
draped in black, whom even at that distance he recognizes as Mrs.
Massereene.

He makes one more vigorous effort to reach them, but too late. Almost
as his hand touches the cab the driver receives his orders, whips up
his emaciated charger, and disappears down the street.

They are gone. With a muttered exclamation, that savors not of
thanksgiving, Luttrell turns aside, and, calling a hansom, drives
straight to Cecil Stafford's.

Whether Molly slept or did not sleep that night remains a mystery. The
following morning tells no tales. There are fresh, faint roses in her
cheeks, a brightness in her eyes that for months has been absent from
them. If a little quiet and preoccupied in manner, she is gayer and
happier in voice and speech once her attention is gained.

Sitting in her small drawing-room, with her whole being in a very
tumult of expectation, she listens feverishly to every knock.

It is not yet quite four months since she and Luttrell parted. The
prescribed period has not altogether expired; and during their
separation she has indeed verified her own predictions,--she has proved
an undeniable success. Under the assumed name of Wynter she has sought
and obtained the universal applause of the London world.

She has also kept her word. Not once during all these trying months has
she written to her lover; only once has she received a line from him.

Last Valentine's morning Cecil Stafford, dropping in, brought her a
small packet closely sealed and directed simply to "Molly Bawn." The
mere writing made poor Molly's heart beat and her pulses throb to pain,
as in one second it recalled to mind all her past joys, all the good
days she had dreamed through, unknowing of the bitter wakening.

Opening the little packet, she found inside it a gold bracelet,
embracing a tiny bunch of dead forget-me-nots, with this inscription
folded round them:

"There shall not be one minute in an hour
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower."

Except this one token of remembrance, she has had nothing to make her
know whether indeed she still lives in his memory or has been
forgotten,--perhaps superseded, until last night. Then, as she met his
eyes, that told a story more convincing than any words, and marking the
passionate delight and longing on his face, she dared