t have known that even our grandfather's worn and stony heart
could not be proof against such grace and sweetness as yours."

He bows over her hand courteously, and, turning away, walks back again
to the window, standing with his face hidden from them all.

Never has he appeared to such advantage. Never has he been so
thoroughly liked as at this moment. Molly moves as though she would go
to him; but Cecil, laying her hand upon her arm, wisely restrains her.
What can be said to comfort him, who has lost home, and love, and all?

"It is all a mistake; it cannot be true," says Molly, piteously. "It is
a mistake." She looks appealingly at Cecil, who, wise woman that she
is, only presses her arm again meaningly, and keeps a discreet silence.
To express her joy at the turn events have taken at this time would be
gross; though not to express it goes hard with Cecil. She contents
herself with glancing expressively at Sir Penthony every now and then,
who is standing at the other end of the room.

"I also congratulate you," says Luttrell, coming forward, and speaking
for the first time. He is not nearly so composed as Shadwell, and his
voice has a strange and stilted sound. He speaks so that Molly and
Cecil alone can hear him, delicacy forbidding any open expression of
pleasure. "With all my heart," he adds; but his tone is strange. The
whole speech is evidently a lie. His eyes meet hers with an expression
in them she has never seen there before,--so carefully cold it is, so
studiously unloving.

Molly is too agitated to speak to him, but she lifts her head, and
shows him a face full of the keenest reproach. Her pleading look,
however, is thrown away, as he refuses resolutely to meet her gaze.
With an abrupt movement he turns away and leaves the room, and, as they
afterward discover, the house.

Meantime, Marcia has torn open her envelope, and read its enclosure. A
blotted sheet half covered with her own writing,--the very letter begun
and lost in the library last October; that, being found, has condemned
her. With a half-stifled groan she lets it flutter to the ground, where
it lies humbled in the dust, an emblem of all her falsely-cherished
hopes.

Philip, too, having examined his packet, has brought to light that
fatal letter of last summer that has so fully convicted him of unlawful
dealings with Jews. Twice he reads it, slowly, thoughtfully, and then,
casting one quick, withering glance at Marcia (under which she cowe