ipated such an event? I
am sorry I ever said anything disparaging of that dear, delightful,
genial, kind-hearted, sociable, generous old gentleman, your
grandfather."

"Don't jest," says Molly, who is almost hysterical. "I feel more like
crying yet. But I am glad at least to know he forgave me before he
died. Poor grandpapa! Cecil, I want so much to see Letitia."

"Of course, dear. Well,"--consulting her watch,--"I believe we may as
well be getting ready if we mean to catch the next train. Will not it
be a charming surprise for Letitia? I quite envy you the telling of
it."

"I want you to tell it. I am so nervous I know I shall never get
through it without frightening her out of her wits. Do come with me,
Cecil, and break the news yourself."

"Nothing I should like better," says Cecil. "Put on your bonnet and let
us be off."

Ringing the bell, she orders round the carriage, and presently she and
Molly are wending their way down the stairs.

At the very end of the long, beautiful old hall, stands Philip
Shadwell, taking, it may be, a last look from the window, of the place
so long regarded as his own.

As they see him, both girls pause, and Molly's lips lose something of
their fresh, warm color.

"Go and speak to him now," says Cecil, and, considerately remembering a
hypothetical handkerchief, retraces her steps to the room she had just
quitted.

"Philip!" says Molly, timidly, going up to him.

He turns with a start, and colors a dark red on seeing her, but neither
moves nor offers greeting.

"Oh, Philip! let me do something for you," says Molly impulsively,
without preparation, and with tears in her eyes. "I have robbed you,
though unwittingly. Let me make amends. Out of all I have let me give
you----"

"The only thing I would take from you it is out of your power to give,"
he interrupts her, gently.

"Do not say so," she pleads, in trembling tones. "I do not want all the
money. I cannot spend it. I do not care for it. _Do_ take some of
it, Philip. Let me share----"

"Impossible, child!" with a faint smile. "You don't know what you are
saying." Then, with an effort, "You are going to marry Luttrell?"

"Yes,"--blushing, until she looks like a pale, sweet rose with a
drooping head.

"How rich to overflowing are some, whilst others starve!" he says,
bitterly, gazing at her miserably, filling his heart, his senses, for
the last time, with a view of her soft and perfect loveliness. Then, in
a kinder t