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The Heatherford Fortune

by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon · English · Gutenberg #38006 · 375,176 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Heatherford Fortune

Author: Mrs. Georgie Sheldon


        
Release date: November 13, 2011 [eBook #38006]
                Most recently updated: May 11, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEATHERFORD FORTUNE ***




The Heatherford Fortune

A SEQUEL TO THE MAGIC CAMEO

_By_ MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

AUTHOR OF

"Tina," "The Lily of Mordaunt," "Mona," "Little Miss Whirlwind," etc.

[Illustration: Decoration]

A. L. BURT COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

       *       *       *       *       *

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Brownie's Triumph
Earl Wayne's Nobility
Churchyard Betrothal, The
Edrie's Legacy
Faithful Shirley
For Love and Honor
  Sequel to Geoffrey's Victory
Forsaken Bride, The
Geoffrey's Victory
Golden Key, The; or a Heart's Silent Worship
Heatherford Fortune, The
  Sequel to The Magic Cameo
He Loves Me For Myself
Helen's Victory
Her Faith Rewarded
  Sequel to Faithful Shirley
Her Heart's Victory
  Sequel to Max
Heritage of Love, A
  Sequel to The Golden Key
Hoiden's Conquest, A
How Will It End
  Sequel to Marguerite's Heritage
Lily of Mordaunt, The
Little Miss Whirlwind; or Lost for Twenty Years
Lost, A Pearle
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  Sequel to Helen's Victory
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Mona
Nora, or The Missing Heir of Callonby
Sibyl's Influence
Threads Gathered Up
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Wedded By Fate

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Copyright, 1898 and 1899 BY STREET & SMITH

THE HEATHERFORD FORTUNE

       *       *       *       *       *

The Heatherford Fortune.

A SEQUEL TO "THE MAGIC CAMEO."




CHAPTER I.

MOLLIE FINDS A FRIEND.


Mollie Heatherford had thought no more of her brave act, by which, at
the risk of her life, she had saved the child Lucille from being
trampled to death under the hoofs of the pawing horses.

The next morning she was greatly surprised to receive a letter from a
gentleman--Monsieur Jules Lamonti, by name--who said he was the
grandfather of little Lucille, and who, after expressing his gratitude
in most heartfelt terms, requested permission to call upon her at her
earliest convenience.

The missive was written in French, and evidently by a highly cultured
gentleman, and Mollie felt that it would only be courteous to grant the
interview so earnestly solicited. She accordingly responded immediately,
and named an hour of the following morning for Monsieur Lamonti to call,
if the time should be convenient for him.

She was somewhat disappointed that he did not keep the appointment, but
the next day, at the specified hour, a magnificent equipage, with
coachman and footman in cream-colored liveries, dashed to the door and
stopped.

Presently an elderly gentleman, of apparently sixty years, with
snow-white hair and beard, his somewhat bowed and attenuated form clad
in the finest of garments, alighted. He was a trifle lame, and depended,
in a measure, upon a cane which, Mollie observed, had a massive gold
head, curiously carved.

Eliza answered his ring and admitted him to the small parlor, then took
the visitor's card, bearing the name "M. Jules Lamonti," to her young
mistress.

Mollie did not keep her caller waiting, to make any change in her
toilet, for she made it a point to be always neatly, if simply, clad;
and, entering his presence with perfect composure, greeted him with a
charming ease and grace of manner.

She saw at a glance that he was an aristocrat; but that did not disturb
her in the least.

He bowed low before her as he responded to her greeting; then, in a
voice that was tremulous from deep emotion, he observed in very fair
English:

"Mademoiselle Heatherford has laid on me an obligation everlasting. Ah!
but my poor heart would have been broken if I the little one had lost."

Mollie, realizing that it would be much easier for him to express
himself in his own language, responded in purest of French, disclaiming
all thought of obligation, and concluded by inquiring if little Lucille
had experienced any ill effects from her accident. The Frenchman was
delighted to find that his hostess could converse with him in his
mother-tongue, and his face beamed with pleasure.

"You speak French, mademoiselle!" he exclaimed. "Ah! that is delightful!
Now we will talk without any difficulty, for I mix your language so
badly. No, Lucille was not hurt. She is perfectly well, and as bright as
the morning. But, Mon Dieu! I tremble when I think what might have been
to-day but for you," he interposed, growing so white that Mollie was
startled. "It was very brave, Mademoiselle Heatherford--it was grand!
They tell me you went straight in under that powerful, frightened brute
to save my precious child. You are a heroine, mademoiselle, and now I
have come to ask you what I shall do to prove my everlasting gratitude."

Mollie flushed and smiled as he called her a "heroine." The word always
thrilled her--as she once told her father. It was like a strain of music
in her ears.

"Please, monsieur, do not speak of any return for what was simply a
humane act," she gently returned; "I am more than recompensed in knowing
that your dear little grandchild escaped unhurt. And how is poor
Nannette to-day? She was greatly frightened and distressed, and I felt
very sorry for her."

A frown darkened Monsieur Lamonti's face, and his eyes flashed with
sudden anger at the mention of the bonne.

"Nannette shall go away--I will not trust my beautiful one with her ever
again," he said sternly. "Ah! if she had been killed! Mon Dieu! I tell
you I could not have survived; she is all I have, mademoiselle, the
only child of my only daughter--ah! but I cannot talk of it," he
concluded brokenly, and trembling visibly.

"But, monsieur, it is all over--she is safe, and let us rejoice that all
is well," soothingly replied Mollie. "And I am sure," she added
confidently, "that Nannette will be very careful in the future. This
will be a lesson to her, and I would have far more confidence in her now
than in a strange maid. She seemed like a good girl and very fond of the
little one, while she bewailed her carelessness with sincere sorrow."

"There is truth in what you say," the gentleman returned, after a moment
of thought. "Nannette has been a good girl--she is faithful, as a rule,
and Lucille loves her. I shall consider what you have said,
mademoiselle, and Nannette will have cause to be grateful to you."

"Thank you. I should feel sorry to have her lose her situation; at the
same time I can understand your anxiety, and she should be required to
promise to be very careful in the future."

Mollie and her caller drifted to other subjects after that and chatted
of many things--of Europe in general, of Paris in particular. Monsieur
Lamonti was charmed with the beautiful girl, while she was no less
delighted with his courtly manner, his culture and brilliant
conversation, and was sincerely sorry when he arose to take his leave.

"Adieu, mademoiselle," he said, holding out his slim, aristocratic hand;
"it is a great pleasure to have met you--you know my country so well;
you speak my language so beautifully; while, for yesterday, I shall
always cherish you in most grateful remembrance. Ah! but to me that is
like sounding brass," he interposed, with a dissatisfied shrug of his
shoulders and in a regretful tone. Then, as his keen eyes swept the
graceful figure in its simple cambric dress, he added: "Is mademoiselle
sure that I cannot serve her in any way?"

Mollie glanced up quickly at him, as a thought suddenly flashed through
her mind, and a bright flush suffused her face as she asked herself if
she dare put the thought into words. There was something his expressive
face, in the sincerity of his speech and his refinement and courtesy,
that inspired her with confidence in him.

"Monsieur, there is one way in which, possibly, you might aid me," she
began, with some reluctance.

"Name it, mademoiselle!--by all means name it!" Monsieur Lamonti eagerly
interposed.

"To do that I shall have to open my heart to you a little," Mollie
continued, with a slight quiver of her sweet lips.

"Ah! mademoiselle honors me," said the gentleman, with a grave and
courteous bow.

"Monsieur," the fair girl resumed, flushing again, but with her lovely
eyes steadfastly gazing into his, for she had no false shame on account
of her poverty, "I have recently been reduced to the necessity of
supporting myself and my father, who is a hopeless invalid; but I am
unable to obtain a position. If monsieur could assist me in this
respect, I should be very grateful, for the need is urgent."

Her companion regarded her with admiration. She looked like a young
queen, in spite of her surroundings and the simplicity of her apparel.
Her face was grave and sweet, but strong with the noble purpose that
animated her; her shining hair was like a coronet of gold above her
brow, and she bore herself with a quiet dignity and air of self-respect
that must have commanded the esteem of any one.

"And what is mademoiselle fitted for--what is the position which she
would like best of all?" Monsieur Lamonti inquired.

"I hardly know," Mollie thoughtfully returned. "I have a good education,
and I could teach, if I could find an opening. As you perceive, I can
speak French."

"Mademoiselle's accent is perfect," interposed her listener.

"I am equally familiar with German," she resumed, with an appreciative
smile at his compliment; "I studied in Heidelberg two years, and there
are some other branches which I think I may truthfully say I am
competent to teach."

The man was silent for a moment or two after she ceased, evidently
considering some thought which had suggested itself to him. Then he
broke forth with the characteristic impulse of his nationality:

"Ah! to teach--it is a slave's life!" he said. "The nerves they cannot
bear it, unless indeed mademoiselle has nerves of steel. I tell her what
she shall do. I know exactly the position and it is for mademoiselle's
acceptance if it meets her approval. She speaks French like the native
of Paris; would she take the place of a private secretary, to write
four hours a day for a French gentleman?"

Mollie's heart leaped with joy at such a prospect. It seemed very
inviting, particularly the "four hours a day," which would leave her
much time to be with her dear sick one. But was she competent? That was
a question that seemed important, and for the moment she did not know
what to say.

"Mademoiselle hesitates, and she is quite right," said her companion,
coming to the rescue. "I will explain: The gentleman's secretary was
discharged three days ago for betraying the affairs of his employer, who
not yet has been able to find another to take his place, and the
correspondence is piling up with every mail. It is important that the
letters should be answered. Mademoiselle speaks and writes German also?
Good! There will be German correspondence, too. The remuneration has
been four hundred and fifty francs--or ninety dollars of American
money--monthly. Will Mademoiselle consider the offer?" he concluded with
some eagerness.

"It is certainly very tempting," Mollie smilingly replied, and with
rapidly beating pulses, "and I should not hesitate an instant if----"

"Well?"

"If I was sure I could fill the position acceptably and the gentleman is
willing to substitute a woman for the clerk who has hitherto served
him."

"The latter doubt is easily dispelled, Mademoiselle, since I myself am
the anxious seeker for a trustworthy secretary. Regarding the ability, a
few days' trial will settle that point, and the requirements are
perfect and fluent French and German, and fidelity to the employer's
interests. I shall be pleased if Mademoiselle will come for a week and
try."

"Monsieur Lamonti, I will, and I thank you more than I can express; for
this offer is very opportune, I assure you," said Mollie, her lips
trembling in spite of her efforts at self-control. "I will gladly make
the trial, and I will certainly do my best to please you in every way."

"And when will Mademoiselle oblige me by beginning her duties?" queried
Monsieur Lamonti.

"I am sure, from what you have said, that I am needed at once, and I
will come to-morrow at any hour which you may choose to name," Mollie
replied.

"And that is considerate," returned the gentleman in a gratified tone.
"Then at nine, if that will not inconvenience Mademoiselle, and the
address she will find here."

He drew a card-case from his pocket and presented her a card which had
his business address upon it. Then bidding her a courteous "au revoir,"
he bowed himself out with as much ceremony as if he were leaving a
drawing-room, and a moment later his elegant equipage was rolling
rapidly down the street, while Mollie still stood in the middle of the
room, wondering if the interview had not been all a dream.

She could scarcely credit the evidence of her senses. Ninety dollars a
month! It seemed too good to be true, and like a smile from fortune to
her, when, of late, she had been so anxiously counting even her pennies.
A great burden rolled from her heart and a luminous smile illumed her
face, although there were tears in her eyes.

"At last," she murmured, "I am to know what it means to be of some
practical use in the world, and I will do my very best."




CHAPTER II.

MOLLIE A BREAD-WINNER.


It was a strange experience for this hitherto delicately nurtured girl
to go out into the world and work to support herself and her father, who
had always so watchfully shielded her from every care; who had scarce
allowed her to express a wish before it was gratified, and almost
surfeited her with the luxuries of life.

But she met it bravely. She did not once say to herself that it was a
hardship--she did not even feel it to be such. The heroic element was
strong in her nature, and it showed itself grandly now in this
emergency.

The one thing that did seem hard and cruel to her was the fact that her
dear father was beyond realizing her good fortune and sympathizing with
her in her joy that a future of comparative comfort was assured them, if
she should prove herself competent to retain the position which Monsieur
Lamonti had offered her. She did not feel much doubt upon this point,
for she was sure that he would be very considerate until she became
accustomed to her duties, and she was determined to master every
difficulty and acquit herself with satisfaction.

She presented herself in his office a few minutes before nine o'clock
the next morning and found him awaiting her. He received her with all
the courtesy which characterized his manner toward her the previous day
in her own home.

"Mademoiselle is prompt; that is well," he smilingly observed, "and now,
if you please, we will attend directly to business, for it is urgent."

He pointed to several piles of letters, lying unopened upon a desk, and
Mollie slipped into the chair before it and prepared to give her
undivided attention to his instructions.

He selected several epistles which demanded immediate replies, and,
after clearly explaining what her duty would be, left her to do the
work. Her task was not difficult. Monsieur Lamonti possessed the faculty
of being clear and concise in his directions, and with her natural
fluency of diction, her thorough knowledge of both French and German,
she found everything moving along very smoothly.

The hours slipped swiftly by, and Mollie was greatly surprised when the
clock on the desk above her struck one, and Monsieur Lamonti, glancing
up at the sound, observed:

"That will be all for to-day, Mademoiselle Heatherford, and everything
has been most satisfactory. Allow me to add that I regard myself as very
fortunate in securing such a helper."

"Thank you, monsieur," replied Mollie gratefully. Then she added as she
glanced at the numerous missives still unopened upon both desks: "Pray
let me work another hour; I am not in the least weary."

"But your luncheon, Mademoiselle," said the gentleman in a doubtful
tone.

"I am not in the least hungry, either," said the fair girl, smiling. "I
seldom lunch before half-past one, and I shall not mind waiting thirty
minutes longer; while I am sure there is work here which is equally as
important as what I have already done."

"Mademoiselle is right," returned monsieur, his thoughtful glance
following hers, "but this is your first day and you should not be
overtaxed."

"Do not fear; I have not thought of being tired, and it will give me
pleasure to work another hour and continue to do so every day until the
ordinary routine of business is attained."

She spoke with so much of sincerity, even eagerness, that Monsieur
Lamonti accepted the offer in the same spirit that it was made. At the
end of the hour Mollie was politely dismissed, and went home with a
light heart and with a feeling of importance that was as delightful as
it was novel.

Every morning, promptly at nine o'clock, found her at her desk, where
for five hours she worked patiently and industriously for a week, when
Monsieur Lamonti informed her that his business had been reduced to its
normal condition, and there would be no more extra hours required.

It was a proud moment for the beautiful girl when, as she was about to
leave the office, that gentleman handed her a check for the first money
she had ever earned in her life. She thanked him with a smile and flush
of pleasure; then, as she glanced at it and saw the amount, she started
slightly and exclaimed:

"But monsieur! this is too much; you have made a mistake."

"Pardon, mademoiselle; there is no mistake," quietly returned her
companion. "The check is for twenty-six dollars, is it not?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Very good. The agreement was that mademoiselle should work four hours a
day for ninety dollars per month; but she has labored one extra hour
every day during this week, which calls for extra remuneration, and--as
near as can be estimated--the amount which the check represents," Mr.
Lamonti explained.

"But, monsieur, I never thought--I did not intend----" Mollie faltered
in some confusion.

"Very true--I understand," said the gentleman, smiling kindly into the
lovely face; "but it is only just compensation, and you will oblige me
by making no objection to it. I am also exceedingly obliged for the
accommodation and well pleased with your services. We shall go on very
nicely for the future."

This was a delightful surprise, and she felt highly elated as she ran
about, before going home, to settle some small bills which she had been
obliged to contract, and to purchase a few luxuries for the invalid.

As the weeks slipped by she became deeply interested in her work, and
had her father been well she would have been perfectly happy, for she
felt that she had now a more worthy object in life than that of living
for her own amusement and the demands of fashionable society, as
heretofore.

She entertained a profound respect for Monsieur Lamonti, who was
invariably courteous and considerate, and never appeared to be ruffled
in the slightest degree, no matter how perplexing his business might be.

She gradually learned considerable of his history, as from time to time
he referred to his past, and ascertained that his life had been full of
romance and sorrow.

He belonged to a noble family of France, but had incurred the lasting
displeasure of his relatives by marrying contrary to their wishes and
was disinherited in consequence. But he loved his beautiful girl-wife
with all the strength of his manhood, and preferred exile and poverty a
thousand times with her, to fame and fortune without her.

They had retired to a quiet little village immediately after their
marriage, and where, with a little money, together with unlimited energy
and perseverance, Monsieur Lamonti had perfected an invention which ere
long brought him large returns in sales and royalties, and at the end of
fifteen years he was the possessor of a large fortune.

Then his wife was suddenly taken from him, leaving him with a lovely
daughter, fourteen years of age, and who now became all-in-all to his
almost broken heart.

Wishing her to profit by the very best education which his country
afforded and her future position would demand, he transferred his
residence to Paris, where he remained for the ten succeeding years, and
where his daughter married a worthy young man, of whom he heartily
approved.

Her child, the little Lucille, was born a year later, and she was only a
few months old when her mother's health began to fail and she was
ordered to Italy for change of scene and climate. She was accompanied by
her husband, but the child was left behind with Monsieur Lamonti and in
the care of an efficient nurse.

Two months later, both father and mother were drowned during a terrible
gale while on a yachting excursion in the Mediteranean, and this tragic
event and terrible affliction nearly deprived him of his mind for a time
and aged him many years in appearance. But from that time all his
thought and affection was centered in his granddaughter, who was a
bright and promising child, and who, eventually, if she lived, would
become sole heiress to his immense fortune.

When she was a year old certain interests connected with his invention
demanded Monsieur Lamonti's presence in America, while, during the last
few years, having become somewhat prominent in matters of a political
nature, he was elected a sort of charge d'affaires to conduct certain
negotiations of a delicate nature in this country, and which would
require the exercise of tact, judgment, and diplomacy.

He had accepted the commission, more for the sake of having plenty to
occupy his mind and prevent him from dwelling upon his many sorrows,
than because he desired public office and emolument, hence his presence
in the nation's capital, where he had resided during the last two years.

"Thus you will understand, mademoiselle," he had observed to Mollie with
a heavy sigh, when telling her something of his life, "how utterly
desolate I should have been to-day, if you had not so bravely risked
your life to save my little Lucille. The world would hold nothing for me
if I were to lose her--she is the one link that now holds me here--that
makes me prize in the least a life that has been full of sorrow. See!"
he interposed, touching the silvery locks above his temples. "I am not
yet quite fifty years of age, and any one would declare that I am more
than sixty."

It was all very sad, Mollie thought--there were many sad and
incomprehensible things in life that were forcing themselves more and
more upon her observation of late, and she could not be reconciled to
them. If she could have known how she cheered the sorrow-burdened man
with her sweet and sunny presence--how like a ray of bright, warm
sunshine she seemed, whenever she appeared in his office, and that her
voice was, like Lucille's, as inspiring and soothing to him as a strain
of sweetest music, she would have been very happy.

He frequently brought the child to the office, to make a little call
upon her, and the two soon began to grow very fond of each other. Then,
too, Monsieur Lamonti would often call for her in the afternoon to go
for a drive with them, and, upon several occasions, he had invited her
to be present when he made a small fete for his granddaughter, to assist
in entertaining the children, since he had no mistress in his home to
manage such festivities, and he had learned that she dearly loved little
ones. At such times he exerted himself to make the occasion pleasant for
her in other ways--by showing her works of art and numerous curios which
he had gathered from various portions of the world by playing various
instruments, for he was very talented in music and could play the organ,
harp, piano, and violin with more skill than many a professional while
he could talk of masters and artists, giving their history and merits,
with a fluency which proved him thoroughly posted in such matters. He
was also very thoughtful for Mr. Heatherford, often sending his carriage
to take him out for an airing, the coachman and footman being instructed
to show him every attention while wines, fruits, and other delicacies
for him mysteriously found their way into Eliza's domains.

He also had learned much of the girl's past, previous to her
misfortunes; he studied her from day to day and learned to reverence the
strength of character and purity of purpose which were apparent in her
every act, and thus there grew up a strong and abiding friendship
between the fair young girl and the courtly Frenchman.

One morning Mollie started forth, at the usual hour, to go to the
office, and for some reason she seemed brighter and happier than common.
She was in perfect health, there was an exquisite color in her cheeks,
her lips were like holly berries, and her eyes glowed with the hope and
vigor that belonged to her young life.

She was clad in a golden-brown broadcloth costume, trimmed with narrow
bands of sable fur. It was one of the last dresses she had bought in
Paris, recently made over by a clever modiste--whom she had discovered
near her--and it fitted her exquisitely, showing her finely proportioned
figure to good advantage. Her hat matched her suit in color and was
brightened by the wing of a Baltimore oriole. In her well-gloved hands
she carried a rich, but modest pocketbook--another relic of the past,
and no one would have dreamed, as this stylish and elegantly clad young
woman stepped upon the street-car on her way to Monsieur Lamonti's
office, that she was working for her daily bread.

She might have passed for the wife or daughter of some senator or other
distinguished official--although it was rather an early hour for the
elite to be abroad--and many an admiring eye lingered upon her bright
beauty.

In the car her eye was attracted by a gentleman who was standing near
her. He was clinging to a strap overhead, and as Mollie's glance swept
over him and upward, along his arm to the hand above, her heart gave a
great startled bound, her cheeks flushed a vivid scarlet, and her eyes
darkened until they seemed almost black.




CHAPTER III.

MOLLIE MEETS HER HERO.


The gentleman who had attracted Mollie's attention was above the medium
height, broad-shouldered, erect, and with a fine, well-poised head which
was covered with dark-brown hair. He was nicely, though not richly clad,
although he looked the gentleman, every inch, while his bearing was as
quietly dignified and self-possessed as if he had been the possessor of
millions.

He was standing with his back toward Mollie, and she could not see his
face, thus he was utterly unconscious of the beautiful eyes that were
resting upon him and also of the commotion which he had roused in the
heart of the possessor of those same lovely eyes.

It was not the stalwart figure, nor the proud, nobly formed head, which
had especially attracted her attention. It was the strong and shapely
hand that was firmly grasping the strap above him and upon the little
finger of which he wore an exquisitely cut cameo ring.

Mollie had recognized it instantly--she would have known it anywhere,
for it was the ring which she had given to Clifford Faxon, six years
previous, when, acting upon the impulse of the moment, she had sought
him out at New Haven to thank him, individually, for the lives he had
saved when, though only a farmer's bound boy, he had prevented a
terrible railroad wreck.

Again, as on that occasion, she was strangely thrilled by his presence,
even though he was unconscious of her own.

How she wished that he would turn his head so that she could obtain a
view of his face! She knew, well enough, that it was in keeping with the
splendid form before her and with what she knew of the character of the
man, but she wanted to see if she could trace familiar lines in it; if
it still wore the same frank, honest expression of six years ago; if the
magnificent brown eyes still retained their clear, earnest,
straightforward glance; if the lips wore the same genial smile. Then she
found herself wondering if he would remember her, or whether she had
changed so much that he would merely glance indifferently at her and
then pass her like any stranger. What right had she to think he would
recognize her? she mentally questioned with an impatient shrug of her
shoulders, the flush deepening again upon her cheeks.

She had been only a miss in short dresses and one among the hundreds who
had been eager to honor him upon that occasion--to grasp him by the hand
and shower grateful thanks upon him. True she had given him the ring as
a souvenir, and told him she should love him all her life for what he
had done--how her face burned as she recalled those impulsive words--but
he had received from others what had doubtless proved to be a far more
useful and practical gift--the generous purse of money.

But why did he wear the ring if he treasured no pleasant memory of the
giver? This thought set her heart to fluttering again in a way that was
highly foreign to the usual self-possession of the recent society belle,
but it was quickly followed by the somewhat mortifying reflection that
the cameo was a valuable and unique affair and quite a treasure of art
to possess.

Every pulse thrilled anew when, as she signaled the conductor to stop,
she observed the young man preceding her, as if he also was about to
alight. Mollie followed closely, hoping that she might be fortunate
enough to get a view of his face.

He stepped off the car, and paused to wait for it to pass on, before
crossing the street, as was evidently his intention.

Mollie, with her thoughts full of the past, in which he had figured so
conspicuously, was a little heedless as she alighted, her foot turning
awkwardly, and she would have fallen if her "hero" had not sprung to her
side, and, with a courteous, "allow me," grasped her arm and saved her
from what might have been a painful accident.

"Thank you very much," she said with a brilliant smile and blush, as she
recovered herself, and lifted her gleaming eyes to the handsome face
which she had so longed to see.

The young man started at the sound of her voice, and then bent an
earnest look upon her, an expression of perplexity sweeping over his
features. Then, almost instantly, his countenance cleared, a glad, eager
light leaped into his eyes, which Mollie saw were unchanged, and there
was a repressed thrill of triumph in his tones as he earnestly observed:

"I hope you are not hurt."

"Not in the least, I assure you, and I owe it to your timely aid,"
Mollie returned, an answering ring of joy in her own voice, as she saw
that he remembered her, in spite of the changes time had made in her.

But, even though she realized that he was lingering with the hope that
she would make the first advances and reference to their former meeting,
as certainly belonged to her to do, a sudden and unaccountable shyness
seized her. She stooped to brush some dust that had adhered to her
skirt, then, with another smile and bow, she entered Monsieur Lamonti's
office. A moment later she bitterly repented having allowed the precious
opportunity to pass unimproved.

"Why," she mentally exclaimed, with a sense of scorn for herself. "I
acted just like a bashful schoolgirl, and ought to be ashamed of myself.
It was my place, when I saw that he knew me, to recognize him. How
unappreciative and indifferent he must think me--how ill-mannered, when
I told him that day that I should never forget him. I am more sorry than
I can express, for perhaps he is in Washington only for a few days, and
I may never meet him again. How utterly stupid of me!"

But in spite of these keen regrets, the girl's heart was unusually light
all day, for the "hero" of her girlhood had more than fulfilled her
anticipations; she had realized, during those few months, when they had
stood face to face, that he was strong and true and manly in the
highest acceptation of the terms; she believed that he was destined to
distinguish himself in the future, but what made her especially happy
was the fact that he had not forgotten her--that he had been glad to
meet her again, as both his look and tone had testified.

With these reflections came the sudden revelation of her exact attitude
toward Philip Wentworth. The contrast between the two young men was
marked and suggestive. Phil was the pleasure-loving man of the world,
living only for what entertainment he could extract from life and
society. Clifford Faxon was the thoughtful, conscientious worker, with
some high and earnest purpose in view that would not only promote his
own individual interests, but also advance the standard of men and
methods in general, and Mollie now saw that she had never even been in
danger of loving Phil--that he was hardly worthy of even her respect,
and she almost scorned herself for having hesitated an instant when he
had declared his love for her, a little more than a year ago, during her
visit in Brookline.

She had never seen him since leaving Boston, although he had often
asserted that he was "coming to Washington." His letters had been
growing few and far between, each one colder and more formal in its
tone. Not once had he renewed his protestations of love for her,
although there was a vein of assumption--a kind of taken-for-granted
style in his epistles which might be interpreted to mean much or
nothing; there certainly had been nothing tangible in them, and it had
been several months now since she last heard from him. But had he
remained as true as the needle to the pole, she knew now that she never
could have married him after this meeting with Clifford Faxon.

"Oh, any one can see that he is head and shoulders above Phil, mentally,
morally, and, almost that, physically," she mused, as she recalled
Cliff's splendid physique, his thoughtful face and earnest eyes. "I hope
I shall meet him again some day," and the sigh that supplemented this
reflection told how deeply she regretted the lost opportunity of the
morning.

Clifford Faxon himself was fully as much exercised in view of the
unexpected meeting and its unsatisfactory results. He had not observed
Mollie particularly at first, except that he had realized that some one
had made a misstep, and almost involuntarily he had tried to avert an
accident; but the instant she spoke, her tones had betrayed her to
him--he had never forgotten them. Many and many a time in his dreams,
both waking and sleeping, he had seemed to hear her silvery voice
vibrating with its thrill of fervent gratitude in those words so
indelibly stamped upon his heart: "You have saved my life--you have
saved all our lives, and it is such a wonderful--such a grand thing to
have done! I am very grateful to you, for my life is very bright. I love
to live. Oh, I cannot say half there is in my heart; but I shall never
forget you--I shall love you for your heroism of this day always."

Then, as he had studied the lovely face, he had traced the
well-remembered features, even though she had changed and bloomed from
the slip of a girl in short dresses and with that shining braid of hair
hanging between her shoulders, into this beautiful and stylish young
woman, with her perfect form, her queenly carriage and elegant apparel.

He saw that she had recognized him, for he had been quick to note the
light that had leaped into her eyes and the conscious flush that had
suffused her face, and, though he was disappointed, he was half-inclined
to believe what was really the truth, that a sudden shyness, produced by
the unexpected encounter, had alone caused her to refrain from referring
to their former meeting, and yet, believing her to be still the petted
child of fortune and far above him, socially, his sensitiveness
suggested that she might not now care to renew their acquaintance--if
such it could be called--in spite of her assurance that she should
"never forget him."

He also had been in Washington for more than a year. He had come, as he
had told Maria Kimberly he contemplated doing, with Mr. Hamilton, who
had opened the ---- House the first of that season. He had served him
for nearly a year, and then, through the influence of some gentlemen who
were guests in the hotel, he had secured a government position, and was
proving himself so efficient he bade fair to rise still higher in the
service of the nation.

It is rather remarkable that he and Mollie should never have met before
during all this time; but it was one of those happenings which can never
be accounted for.

And even though they had at last encountered each other, he experienced
the same perplexity that Mollie had felt, not knowing whether she was
there merely for a few days, as a sightseer, and would immediately float
away again beyond his reach, or whether her father had some official
position and was residing in the city. It was all very tantalizing,
especially the fact that he did not even know her name. He had often
heard Mrs. Temple call her Mollie, and Philip Wentworth had refused to
tell him anything about her, except to boast that she was his fiancée.

Then, as these memories crowded upon him, he caught his breath sharply
as a sudden, terrible fear took possession of him. Possibly this fair
Mollie, this gloriously beautiful girl, who was his ideal of all that
was perfect in womanhood, might already be Philip's wife, for only a day
or two previous the Temples had passed him on the street in their
carriage, and his former classmate was with them.

When Mollie entered the office that morning she found it empty, Monsieur
Lamonti not having arrived, although he was almost invariably there
before her. He came a few moments later, however, but appeared sad and
preoccupied, and upon Mollie inquiring if he were ill he said no, but
that Lucille was far from well. She had been feverish and restless all
night. He had called a physician that morning, but he spoke lightly,
saying that her indisposition was only the effect of a slight cold, and
she would be all right in a day or two.

But the gentleman was evidently very much disturbed, and finally
confessed to Mollie that he would be obliged to go to New York that
afternoon, and could not return until the next evening. The approaching
separation and suspense, he said, seemed almost unbearable, particularly
as Lucille was ill.

"I know that Nannette is, as a rule, careful and faithful," he observed,
"but somehow I feel very reluctant to leave the child alone with her."

Mollie turned to him eagerly.

"Monsieur, would you feel more comfortable if I should go and remain
with Lucille and Nannette until you return?" she inquired.

The man's face cleared instantly at the suggestion.

"Would you be so good, mademoiselle?" he asked in a relieved tone.
"Could you be spared from your father?"

"Oh, yes; Eliza can do everything necessary for papa, and I will gladly
stay with Lucille," Mollie replied.

Monsieur Lamonti accepted her offer most gratefully, upon this
assurance, and when his carriage came to him he drove home with her to
tell Eliza what her plans were, after which they repaired to his
residence.

They found Lucille much better than she had been in the morning, and
Monsieur Lamonti prepared for his journey with restored cheerfulness,
and finally took his departure, feeling quite content.

Mollie took Lucille wholly in charge for the remainder of the day, and
allowed Nannette, who had been closely confined within doors, to have a
little time to herself, and she went out to visit and take tea with a
friend.

She returned about nine in the evening to find her charge sleeping
quietly and restfully, and Mollie reading a new book in the library.

They soon retired, Mollie occupying Monsieur Lamonti's room, which
adjoined, although it did not connect with the one where Lucille and
Nannette slept. Mollie said she preferred this arrangement to being put
off in the guest chamber, as she would feel less lonely.

After shutting herself into the room for the night--although she did not
lock the door--not feeling sleepy, she began to look about the
apartment, which, like the rest of the house, was full of beautiful and
interesting things--fine paintings on the walls, choice books and
bric-a-brac on tables and mantle, and in one corner a cabinet of curios,
rare and costly.

Mollie spent a long time looking these latter over and reading from the
"key" their history and the names of the far-off places whence they had
come. But she grew weary of this occupation after a while and finally
began to prepare for bed.

While thus engaged she observed on a stand behind the bed what appeared
to be a book having a curious cover. She attempted to take it up when
the top came off, and she was startled to find it was a box containing a
small, but beautiful silver-mounted revolver.

Her start, however, was only momentary, for Mollie knew something about
firearms, having had some practise at shooting at a target while she was
abroad. She lifted the weapon and examined it carefully, noting the
curious chasing on the silver, the number of chambers, and also that it
was loaded.

She finally laid it back in its place, replacing the cover, and had
scarcely done so when, for the first time, she noticed upon the opposite
side of the room a small safe. For a moment an uncomfortable sensation
began to creep over her, for the safe and the loaded revolver suggested
that there might be valuables to be defended in the former--possibly,
she thought, costly jewels, which might have belonged to Lucille's
mother and grandmother.

But she put away the feeling with a little shrug and smile, resolutely
put out the electric lights, then crept into bed and was soon dreaming,
as on two previous nights since her meeting with him, of the hero of her
girlhood--Clifford Faxon.

The next she knew she was vaguely conscious of hearing the cathedral
clock in the hall strike two; then she was suddenly broad awake, every
sense painfully on the alert, although she could not, for the moment,
move a muscle, as the conviction was forced upon her that some one was
moving stealthily about the room.




CHAPTER IV.

A THRILLING MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE.


For a moment Mollie was simply paralyzed with fear; she could neither
move hand nor foot, which perhaps was the very best thing that could
have happened under the circumstances. But her mind worked with the
rapidity of lightning and to some purpose.

She could distinctly hear the movements of some one about the room,
stealthy and cautious as the invader tried to be, and once she plainly
saw the outline of a man as the figure passed between her vision and a
window.

She was sure that a burglar had entered the house--some one who,
doubtless, had learned of Monsieur Lamonti's absence and had taken
advantage of it to come and help himself to what valuables he could
find.

Then a shock of dismay and fear set all her nerves tingling as she
remembered the safe; but this was almost immediately succeeded by a
great calm, a grim determination taking possession of her, and plans to
carry it out quickly forming in her active brain.

Very cautiously she reached out her right hand and secured the revolver
that lay on the stand beside her. Her touch was so light that, as she
timed her act just as the burglar stooped to examine the safe, not a
sound was distinguishable.

Slipping it under the bed-clothing she softly removed it from the box.
The next moment it was cocked and she drew a deep, silent breath of
relief as she realized that she could now control the situation about as
she pleased.

Her next act was to reach out again and feel for a cluster of three
electric buttons, which had been placed in the wall close beside the
bed.

One of these controlled a wire communicating with the nearest
police-station, and had been put there for just such an emergency as the
present. Another was connected with the electric apparatus for lighting
the house, and the third governed the lock of the front door.

Similar buttons were in every room of the main portion of the house, and
Monsieur Lamonti had explained their operation to Mollie several weeks
previous during one of her visits, and they were grouped in the form of
a triangle; two were side by side, and the third between and above them.

It was the upper button which Mollie had touched. Then she lay quietly
listening for several minutes, while the other occupant, having produced
a tiny dark-lantern, continued his investigations at the safe.

All at once, in the distance, she caught the sound of hoofs and wheels,
and knew that help was coming to her.

She now touched the button controlling the front door. A moment later
she lightly pressed the third button, and instantly the apartment was
flooded with light, as was also the hall outside. With a startled oath
the burglar sprang to his feet, and, turning, found himself confronted
by the loveliest vision he had ever seen in his life, as he afterward
told a pal in prison, and a "dandy barker" that was cocked and aimed
straight at his heart.

Mollie had sprung to a sitting posture after touching the third button
and was prepared for duty. Her face was pale as marble, but there was a
determined light in the blue eyes which warned the invader that she was
braced for instant action while his experienced eye immediately grasped
the fact that she knew how to manipulate the weapon she held, and that
her hand was as steady as if she were holding simply a glass of water.

But the man was a desperate and powerful fellow, and he did not mean to
be beaten at his game "by any slip of a girl like that," and so
determined to make a bluff to attain his object and watch his chance to
disarm her.

The house was perfectly still, and he was confident that no one else in
it had been aroused, and he fondly imagined he could easily intimidate
his fair captor, for he had not the slightest suspicion that she had any
way of summoning assistance from outside.

"You'd better put down that barker, miss, if you don't want to get into
trouble," he commanded in a gruff, though subdued voice, for he had no
desire to arouse any one else. "I don't ever like to hurt a lady, and
I'd be 'specially loath to do harm to such a pretty girl as you are."

Mollie's eyes flashed indignant fire at his familiar language and
obnoxious compliment.

"Silence!" she cried, in a clear, incisive tone, and her faultless
elocution served her to some purpose now, for it made her every word
tell effectively. "No!--don't you dare to attempt to get out your
revolver if you have one," she continued, as she saw his right hand
creeping toward one of his pockets. "That is right," as he instantly
dropped it again to his side. "Obey me and you will not be hurt. Show
the slightest disposition to disobey me and I will not hesitate to let
you have the contents of one of these chambers, and I shall not miss
you, either. Now sit down in that rocking-chair near you and put your
hands upon the arms."

But the man did hesitate to obey this command and glanced nervously
toward the door, which he had left open when he entered the room, as if
contemplating a bold dash for freedom. Then he suddenly changed his
mind, as the small hand which held that costly revolver was slightly
raised as if to take a truer aim, and he obediently dropped into the
chair which Mollie had indicated, then added in a tone of mingled wrath
and admiration:

"Well, for a girl of your years, you're the coolest specimen I've ever
seen."

"Yes, I know something about firearms. I had considerable practise
shooting at a target in a gallery in Paris a couple of years ago,"
remarked the intrepid girl with deliberate distinctness.

Her captive cringed visibly at her remark, and, observing it, she
realized that he was at heart a coward in spite of his profession and
his attempt to bully her, and her courage rose in proportion. Just then
she heard a vehicle outside slacken speed and stop before the house. The
burglar also caught the sound and an anxious look shot into his eyes.

"What's that?" he demanded roughly; "the boss coming home?"

"No; Monsieur Lamonti will not return until to-morrow, or until this
afternoon, I should have said," Mollie composedly remarked. Then she
added with a gleam of triumph in her blue eyes:

"I am expecting some friends whom I have summoned to aid me in this
emergency; doubtless they have arrived."

"The cops!" cried the burglar in a startled tone.

"Yes."

"How on earth did you manage that?" he questioned breathlessly.

"Ah!"--as his practised eye swiftly swept the walls and finally rested
on the group of electric buttons--"the house is wired for it."

"You are right, and it is an exceedingly convenient arrangement," dryly
responded the girl.

"Thunder and lightning! I swear I won't sit here to be caught like a rat
in a trap," snarled her companion, as he started wildly to his feet and
glanced around him for some way of escape.

"Sit down!" and the pistol in Mollie's hand was again raised menacingly,
while footfalls were now plainly heard ascending the steps leading to
the entrance to the house.

The man dropped with a quick, indrawn breath, as his eye fell upon the
white, slim finger that rested on the trigger of the revolver. Then a
sudden thought struck him and he breathed more freely.

"But they can't get in," he observed with a chuckle of exultation, for
he told himself that if she was obliged to get up to admit the policemen
he would have an opportunity to make a bolt for the nearest window and
have a fair chance to escape by means of a balcony which could be
plainly discerned outside.

"You are mistaken," his fair captor replied, "for when I touched the
button that governs the communication with the station-house I also
pressed another that unlocks the front door. Allow me to say for the
information of any of your friends who may be followers of your
profession, in case you should have an opportunity to communicate with
them, that almost every room in the house is wired in the same way."

"Hell and furies!" groaned the unfortunate victim, and actually writhing
in his chair, for at that moment steps and voices were heard in the hall
below, and he knew that he was inextricably "bagged." Involuntarily he
clapped his hand to his pistol-pocket.

"Sit still!" commanded the brave girl, and she leaned forward, her eyes
blazing like two points of flame. "Another movement and I fire."

He knew she would, for there was a relentless purpose in her watchful
gaze, and he settled back limp and white to await the inevitable.

With her glance never for an instant wavering from the form in the
rocker, Mollie called out in clarion tones:

"Come right up-stairs, Mr. Officer, and you will find what you are
looking for."

A moment later two policemen entered the room and took in the situation
at a glance.

In a trice they had their prize--whom they instantly recognized as a man
they had long been trying to run down--disarmed and safely handcuffed,
he offering no resistance.

Then they turned their attention to the heroic girl upon the bed. But
she felt little like a heroine at that moment.

She had dropped her weapon the instant the officers appeared upon the
scene, too weak and spent to hold it longer, and now lay white and
panting upon her pillows, consciousness almost forsaking her now that
the reaction had come.

Almost simultaneously Nannette rushed into the room, her eyes wide and
staring with fear upon beholding three strange men in the place, while
she tremulously inquired if the house was on fire.

"No, no," one of the policemen replied reassuringly, "everything is all
right now; but you'd better get the young lady a glass of wine or
something. Did he attempt to do you any harm, miss?" he respectfully
inquired.

"No, he did not have any opportunity," she panted, a ghost of a smile
curving her white lips as she significantly touched the revolver that
lay beside her.

"I see," said the man with a nod, "and you are a downright plucky girl!
There, drink something, and then you shall tell us all about the
affair," he concluded as Nannette approached with a glass of port wine
which she had taken from a small cabinet which Monsieur Lamonti had in
his room.

There was a tall Oriental screen before the fire-place, and the men
placed this between the bed and their prisoner, then retired behind it
themselves to give the exhausted girl time to recover herself.

Mollie sipped a little of the wine and soon found her strength
returning, and with it and the friendly presence of Nannette, much of
her habitual self-possession.

"Nannette, pray, get me a shawl or dressing-sack," she whispered to the
girl. The maid whisked into her own room and returned almost immediately
with a pretty wrapper of her own, and into which she deftly assisted
Mollie, who then signified her readiness to talk with the officers,
while she seated herself in a chair outside the screen and motioned
Nannette to another near her.

She briefly related what had occurred from the moment when she had heard
the clock strike two until the appearance of the officers. Her language
was simple and unassuming, but the story produced a marked impression
upon her hearers.

Nannette became greatly excited during the recital, but protested that
she had not heard a sound until Miss Heatherford called out to the
officers to come up-stairs, when she hurriedly threw on her robe and
came to her, fearing she might be ill or the house afire.

The policemen regarded the fair narrator with undisguised admiration,
as she told how she had softly taken possession of the revolver and
cocked it beneath the bed-clothing before turning on the lights.

"It was a mighty plucky thing to do," one of them remarked.

"I sincerely hope that I shall not have to testify against this man at a
public trial," said Mollie anxiously.

The officers saw that she was greatly distressed in view of such a
possibility, and their sympathies were with her.

"Well, miss, I can't say for certain about that. I reckon you'll have to
appear and give evidence; but perhaps a private examination can be
arranged, and if the reporters don't get hold of it you'll be all right.
I'm sure I, for one, would be glad to oblige a lady who has shown more
grit than many a man would have done in such a tight place," one of the
men observed in the most respectful manner.

"And I'm with you," said the other heartily.

"Thank you very much," Mollie replied gratefully and with that rare
smile of hers which made every one delight to serve her.

"Are you timid, Miss Heatherford?" the one who appeared to be the
superior officer inquired. "Would you like one of us to stay in the
house or about the place for the remainder of the night?"

"Oh, no--thank you. I am sure that will not be necessary, for we shall
not be likely to have this experience repeated to-night. We will open
the door connecting with the servants' hall, and I shall feel perfectly
safe."

"Very well; then we may as well be getting our jailbird into his cage.
But, upon second thought," the man added, as he caught sight of
Nannette's shiver of terror and saw that Mollie was still very pale, "I
think when I get him aboard the patrol-wagon I will leave Brown here to
watch about until daylight; maybe it will make you a little easier in
your mind."

Mollie smiled gratefully into his honest face.

"Thank you," she said heartily, and with a sudden sense of relief which
convinced her that she had overestimated her feeling of security;
"perhaps you are right, and I think, on the whole, we may rest better to
know that we are guarded."

"Come," said the officer, turning to the burglar, who had not once
spoken, except to curse when the handcuffs were slipped upon his wrists,
"we must be moving."

Then, with a respectful good-night to the two girls, the officers led
him away, and three minutes later Mollie heard the patrol-wagon drive
away and heaved a long sigh of thankfulness that the horrible experience
was over, and with no loss of valuables to her good friend, Monsieur
Lamonti.

Nannette, who had been watching the departure from a window, informed
her that Officer Brown had been left behind, and was slowly pacing the
sidewalk before the house.

This arrangement was so reassuring to both girls that they immediately
retired with a sense of perfect security, and were soon sleeping as
soundly and restfully as if they had not been disturbed.




CHAPTER V.

THE TEMPLES APPEAR.


It was after eight o'clock when Mollie finally awoke again, and feeling,
somewhat to her surprise, not one whit the worse for her exciting
adventure during the small hours of the morning.

After making her toilet she sought Nannette, who was dressing Lucille,
and they both agreed not to speak of what had occurred before the
servant--at any rate, until after Monsieur Lamonti's return.

Lucille was better, and, after they had had their breakfast, Mollie
thought, as the day was very fine, it would do her good to go for a
drive.

The carriage was accordingly ordered, and the three--for Lucille never
went anywhere without her maid, except on rare occasions with her
grandfather--were soon rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue, thence to
Mollie's home to ascertain how Mr. Heatherford had passed the night,
after which the coachman was told to drive out toward Arlington Heights.

They rested a while in the venerable mansion, and then started on their
homeward way. They were just passing the boundary of what was once known
as the "old Lee estate," when they met another carriage entering the
beautiful grounds.

This vehicle contained four persons, and they were none other than Mr.
and Mrs. William Temple, with their daughter Minnie, and Philip
Wentworth. This quartet manifested no little astonishment upon beholding
Mollie, sitting like a fair young princess in her fine equipage, and she
experienced a little secret amusement as she encountered their wondering
gaze.

Mr. and Mrs. Temple bowed politely, but with marked formality. Minnie
waved her hand, with a smile of pleasure, at her old friend, of whom she
had been very fond, while Philip removed his hat with elaborate
courtesy, his eyes beaming with admiration as he looked into Mollie's
fair face and realized that she was even lovelier than when he had seen
her last in Boston, a year and a half previous, and instantly all his
old-time passion for her revived.

Mollie returned these greetings courteously and with the utmost
self-possession; but her eyes were very bright and the color in her
cheeks gleamed like scarlet poppies for a moment.

Then the carriages passed and were parted without a word having been
spoken, although Minnie had been upon the point of bursting out in her
childish eagerness with some expression of greeting; but her mother
hushed her with a single low-spoken word.

Mollie's heart burned within her with mingled scorn and indignation, in
view of this coldness, for she well remembered the days when the whole
family had been most gracious in their manner toward her--had even
fawned upon her and spared no effort to cultivate her society.

She was stung anew, too, with the memory of the unpardonable outrage
perpetrated against her father during their last visit with the Temples;
while, even though she had long known that she had never loved and could
never love and would never marry him under any circumstances, Philip's
peculiar attitude toward her filled her with a secret contempt for him.

"Why! how strange that we should have met Mollie Heatherford, and what
an elegant turnout that is in which she is riding!" Mrs. Temple observed
to her husband after the encounter, while she turned and peered out of
the rear window of their own carriage for another glimpse of Monsieur
Lamonti's fine victoria with its liveried coachman and footman.

"It certainly is," Mr. Temple replied. "Those were magnificent horses,
and everything about the affair indicated lavish expenditure. I don't
quite understand the condition of things," he concluded reflectively.

"Mollie was richly dressed, too, and looked, as she always had a way of
looking, like a queen--she has grown handsomer than ever," his wife
pursued. "Did you notice the child and its nurse who were with her?" she
went on, as if some startling thought had occurred to her. "Do you
suppose the girl has married some rich widower and is queening it here
in Washington society?"

Philip gave a violent start as his mother propounded this solution to
the problem that was puzzling them all, and jealously regretting--as
fickle human nature is prone to do when another shows appreciation of a
discarded favorite--what he fondly imagined might have been his if he
had chosen to press his suit.

"I have heard nothing of it if she has," said Mr. Temple, and looking
not altogether comfortable in view of finding the Heatherfords again on
an equal footing with himself. "The last I knew, Mr. Heatherford had
secured a position here with a fair salary, and they were living
comfortably, but in a very humble way compared with their former
circumstances. I will make some inquires to-morrow and ascertain, if
possible, just how they are situated."

Philip did not join in the conversation, but he secretly resolved that
he would himself ascertain the truth about Mollie that very day. He
would seek her in the location to which he had always addressed his
letters, as long as he had written her, and if he failed to find her
there he would search the city over for her.

Neither Mr. Temple nor his mother had known of his correspondence with
her, and the latter had flattered herself that she had been very tactful
in managing to break up certain "foolish" relations between the two that
were liable to prove very awkward.

The family had been in Washington only a few days, and, although Philip
had thought of Mollie in an indifferent kind of way, he had not felt any
special interest to look her up. Now, however, the sight of her radiant
beauty, together with her cool and dignified bearing and the fear that
possibly she had dared to marry another, while he assumed to have a
claim--however indefinite--upon her, fired anew his old-time love for
her and aroused a fierce jealousy within him.

Accordingly, after he had lunched, he immediately set forth upon his
quest for her, going directly to the address where his letters had been
sent.

Eliza, of course, answered his ring, but informed him that her young
mistress was not at home--that, however, she would probably return that
evening. He then inquired for Mr. Heatherford, and was told, with a
non-committal air, that he was "comfortable."

"Has he been ill?" questioned Philip, with some surprise.

"Yes, sah; Marsa Heatherford have been very ill." Eliza quietly
returned, but without volunteering any information regarding the nature
of that gentleman's malady, while she eyed Philip curiously, not
half-liking his looks nor his arrogant bearing.

The young man, however, went away, smoothing his ruffled plumage with no
little satisfaction. Mollie was not married; probably, he assumed, she
was simply a day governess in some wealthy family, and that would
account for her being out for a drive with the child and its nurse in
the elegant carriage he had seen that morning.

He returned to his hotel quite elated and promising himself that he
would resume his old relations--to a certain extent--with Mollie, and
thus help to pass some otherwise dull hours during his sojourn in the
city.

In spite of the secrecy which Mollie had desired to preserve regarding
her exciting adventure of the previous night, the evening papers
contained a thrilling account of a bold attempt at robbery, and how it
had been thwarted by the remarkable heroism of a young lady, who had
held the would-be burglar paralyzed at the muzzle of a revolver until
the police were summoned to her aid and captured the criminal.

The name of the gentleman whose residence had been entered was given;
but Mollie's name was considerately withheld. She was simply designated
as Monsieur Lamonti's private secretary, who had been spending a couple
of days in the house as chaperon for the gentleman's little
granddaughter during his absence on a business trip to New York.

Monsieur Lamonti returned, as he had planned, that same evening, and was
greatly exercised in view of what had occurred.

"Mademoiselle has shown herself very brave," he said, after having
freely discussed the matter and regarding her admiringly, "but I tremble
when I think of the danger that threatened her. And there was much of
value in the safe, too--a large sum of money, besides many valuable
jewels. Ah! but you have been my good angel many times, mademoiselle,"
he concluded in a grateful tone.

He opened the safe and showed her the jewels, and, though she had seen
many costly articles of jewelry, she was almost dazzled by the beauty
and value of the collection before her.

"We will not keep them here any longer," said Monsieur Lamonti, as he
returned them to their places. "I could not bear to send them away
because my dear ones had worn them," he added with a regretful sigh,
"but no one must ever be subjected again to such peril as threatened you
last night."

And the following morning he deposited his treasure in a safety-vault,
where no burglar would attempt to seek them.

Shortly after Monsieur Lamonti's arrival Mollie was sent home in his
carriage, that gentleman slipping into her hands a box containing a
dozen pairs of elegant kid gloves, as she left.

"It is nothing," he said with a deprecatory shrug in reply to her
thanks; "it was only to give myself the pleasure of buying something for
some one."

Eliza welcomed her young mistress with a beaming face when she appeared,
and she found that her father had received excellent care during her
absence; but she had not been in the house half an hour, when Philip
Wentworth again made his appearance.

Mollie received him courteously, though somewhat coldly; but he ignored
her lack of cordiality, and, catching both her hands in his, fervently
exclaimed:

"At last! Mollie, we meet again! It has seemed an age since I saw you in
Boston. Did your servant tell you of my call directly after lunch?"

"Yes; Eliza gave me your card on my return. I have been away spending a
couple of days with some friends," Mollie quietly explained, as she
released her hands and indicated a chair for him, then seated herself
upon a small sofa near him.

"Perhaps you will think me very persistent and impatient to make two
calls in one day," Philip observed apologetically, and feeling a trifle
disconcerted by the girl's perfect composure; "but I have been wild to
learn why you ceased writing to me so suddenly--I have not heard from
you for the longest while!"

Mollie lifted a look of surprise to him.

"I think you have transposed the situation," she said, a faint smile
curving her lips. "I have answered every letter that I have received
from you."

"Ah! then I have wronged you; forgive me! And my last letter must have
miscarried, for when I did not hear from you I began to wonder if it
could have contained anything to offend you," Philip returned, but he
flushed beneath the clear, searching eyes looking steadily into his, as
he uttered the lie. Then unceremoniously waiving the uncomfortable
topic, he added with animation:

"But tell me something about yourself now, Mollie. I do not need to ask
if you are well; for your blooming appearance speaks for itself; but how
is your father, and what have you been doing to amuse yourself during
all these long months?"

Again that faint smile wreathed Mollie's lips, and there was a suspicion
of irony in it, for his question was suggestive of the tenor of his own
way of passing his time.

"'To amuse myself'," she repeated in a peculiar tone. "I really have had
very little time to devote to amusement of any kind during the last year
and a half. For the first few months I was busy keeping house for papa,
for we were trying to be economical and kept no servant. Then he was
taken ill."

"Yes, I remember you wrote me at one time that he was ill," Philip
interposed, "but I supposed that he had recovered long ago."

"My father is a hopeless invalid--the physicians tell me that he will
never be any better," said Mollie sadly.

"Can that be possible?" queried her companion, and trying to throw a
proper amount of sympathy into his tone, but secretly wondering how they
managed to keep the wolf from the door.

"Of course, when his health gave out he lost his situation, and his
income stopped," Mollie gravely resumed, "and I was obliged to seek some
employment. I have a position as private secretary to Monsieur Lamonti,
a French gentleman of some prominence here in Washington--possibly you
may have heard of him."

"Ah! yes, I have," said Philip with elevated eyebrows, for the wealthy
Frenchman had been pointed out to him, and now he understood how Mollie
had happened to be riding in that elegant turnout that morning. Then he
added: "I am sorry to learn that Mr. Heatherford's case is so serious."

"Yes; papa has failed sadly; he seldom recognizes even me, now, while
his hands have become so useless that he has to be fed like a child,"
Mollie returned with starting tears.

"That must make it very hard for you, dear," Philip responded with a
tender inflection; "you must find it very irksome, reared as you have
been, to confine yourself to a position and the care of an invalid."

"I do not," she returned brightly, though she straightened herself a
trifle and flushed at his term of endearment. "I thoroughly enjoy my
position, and if papa could only be well once more, I should feel
perfectly happy with my work and the consciousness that I am really of
some practical use in the world."

She looked so proud and animated and bore herself with such an air of
dignity and self-reliance that the young man told himself she was a
hundredfold more lovely and attractive than she had ever been.

But, at the same time, there was an unmistakable atmosphere about her
that held him at arm's length and made him feel as if she had drifted so
far apart from him as to have put him entirely out of her life.

The very thought enraged him, and an insatiate desire to conquer these
conditions and make himself necessary to her happiness took possession
of him. He flushed hotly as he suddenly bent nearer to her.

"Mollie, I cannot bear to know that you are working for wages," he said
passionately.

Mollie laughed out musically, although she drew herself away from him
with an unmistakable chill in her manner.

"Pray, do not be disturbed," she said lightly, "for I assure you that I
enjoy my 'wages,' as you term them, immensely."

"But the humiliation of it," he persisted hotly; "to think of it!--you,
who are fit to queen it anywhere, becoming the servant of any one!"

"I have no sense of humiliation, Philip. I frankly protest that I never
in my life experienced a more comforting sense of self-respect than at
the present time," Mollie spiritedly rejoined, and with a warning
sparkle in her eyes.

"But there is no need of it," he insisted.

"There is every need," she briefly, but gravely, replied.

"No, no, Mollie; surely you have not forgotten the old days," he broke
forth vehemently; "you cannot have forgotten the question which I asked
you a year and a half ago, and which you have never answered. Need I
tell you that I still love you with all my heart?--that I yearn for you,
in spite of the little misunderstanding and interruption to our
correspondence? Mollie, dearest, give up this position; let me provide
for you hereafter--let me stand between you and the necessity for toil;
give yourself to me--you shall have every wish gratified, and I will
become your protector and--your slave."




CHAPTER VI.

A STARTLING PROPOSAL.


Mollie grew first red, then white, at this unexpected renewal of
Philip's suit. At the same time, she was conscious that it did not ring
quite true, in spite of his passionate avowal of love and eagerness of
manner; there was an indefinable undercurrent of reservation--a lack of
sincerity in it that impressed her unpleasantly.

For one thing, she felt that if he had been a true lover, he never would
have allowed their correspondence to cease, simply because a single
letter had gone astray; he would never have been content to let a year
and a half pass without making an attempt to see her and learn how she
was living and how her father was prospering, after having been robbed
of his last dollar by the treachery of his pretended friend.

She began to recover from her confusion almost immediately, however, and
lifting her eyes, earnestly searched her companion's face. Somehow, it
had never appeared so unattractive to her before; it was weak and showed
in the lowering brow, in the habitual expression of discontent, in the
sensuous mouth and irresolute chin, a lack of that true nobility and
strength of character which she knew she must find in the man whom she
married, and even while she looked his eyes wavered and fell before
her, while he shifted uneasily upon his chair.

"Mollie, why do you not answer me?" he demanded, to cover his
embarrassment, and bending toward her tried to capture one of the small,
perfect hands which lay on her lap. "It cannot be possible that you have
forgotten the past or lost all the old love for me. Ah! come to me,
dearest, let me take care of you, and you never need toil another day;
you shall have every luxury which money can buy."

"Phil," Mollie began gently, for she did not wish to wound him, even
though not one chord of her heart thrilled responsive to his ardent
appeal, while at the same time she quietly, but resolutely, released her
hand from his grasp, "I certainly have not forgotten the old days nor
the many good times which we enjoyed during our childhood. But when you
speak of 'the old love,' that is another thing, and I know now that I
never loved you; that is, in the way which you speak of now. When you
asked me before, I told you I was not prepared to say just what my
feelings toward you were, as you will remember. I felt very friendly, as
I said then, 'I liked you right well,' and, as you seemed to be so fond
of me and so anxious that our boy-and-girl play should become a reality,
I thought I would wait a little, and, perchance, as I came to like you
better, the 'like' might grow into love. I could have told you this some
time ago if you had renewed the subject, but you never did; your letters
ceased coming and I supposed you had thought better of the matter and
changed your mind. No, Phil, I do not love you as a woman should love
the man she expects to marry; so let us drop the subject here and now
and agree to be simply good friends for the future."

But her refusal aroused all Philip's antagonism. He was one who could
never bear to be balked in anything, and her statement that she knew
'now' that she did not love him stirred him to fiercest jealousy. What
had led her to such a conclusion? he asked himself. Perhaps she had met
some one else who had awakened the affection which he so coveted, and
this possible solution of the problem made him furious.

For the moment he forgot her poverty; forgot that he had vowed he would
never marry any girl who did not possess an ample fortune. He only
remembered that he loved her--had always loved her, and rich or poor he
was determined to carry his point, if by any possible means he could
achieve it, even though he should rudely trample upon her heart after he
had won it.

"Mollie!" he cried appealingly, "you do not mean it--you cannot be so
cruel as to blight all my hopes, after so many years of devotion to you.
You know that I have loved you ever since we were children; you know
that I have always expected that you would give yourself to me, and do
you think that I can easily surrender you now?"

Mollie wondered what made her shrink involuntarily every time he
mentioned his love for her. There was something that grated harshly upon
her in his every tone, and she experienced a singular distrust of him.

"I am truly sorry, Phil, if you have really been cherishing this hope
for so long," she returned after a moment of thoughtful silence, "for,
to be perfectly frank with you, I have believed everything to be at an
end between us ever since I left Boston. I am very quick to feel any
change in my friends, and I was sure, when the financial crash came to
my father, that a union between you and me would be regarded as a great
misfortune for you. I inferred this both from your own manner and your
mother's when you made your farewell call upon me at the Adams House. I
also observed it in the tone of your letters afterward, and when they
finally ceased altogether, as I have already said, I regarded the matter
as finally settled, as far as you were concerned, and, as I had arrived
at a knowledge of my own attitude toward you, I was perfectly content.
You perceive that I am very plain with you, and now let me add, Phil,
that you will yet make the discovery that some other woman will make you
happier than I ever could have done."

"I shall not!" Philip retorted vehemently. "I love you, and you alone.
Mollie, you shall not send me away like this--I cannot bear it. Give me
at least a little more time in which to try to make you love me; do not
throw me over utterly, for you will ruin my life if you do."

And he began to believe what he was saying. The more he realized that
she was dropping out of his life altogether, the more he coveted her
love. In the rashness of the moment, in the heat of his anger at being
opposed in his purpose, he might even have gone to the length of
marrying her on the spot, if the conditions had been propitious.

"No, I can give you no more 'time,' Phil, for the matter is irrevocably
settled, as far as I am concerned," Mollie responded kindly, but firmly,
"and I should only be doing you a great wrong if I should encourage you
to believe otherwise. Now, please let us dismiss the subject, once for
all, and agree to be only the best of friends in the future."

"Mollie, I won't!" Philip exclaimed with mingled anger and wounded
pride. "There must be some reason for this unaccountable change in
you--more than appears on the surface. Perhaps you have met some one
else whom you have learned to love--tell me, is it so?"

Two scarlet spots leaped into Mollie's cheeks at this excited and
imperative demand. They were called there by a shock of mingled
indignation and conscious guilt. She felt that, even though Phil had
been a lifelong friend, he had no right to try to extort the secrets of
her heart in any such high-handed manner.

Yet, at the same instant, when he had accused her of loving another,
Clifford Faxon's face, with its expression of high resolve and noble
purposes, its clear, honest eyes, its frank and genial smile, arose
before her, causing a sudden, conscious heart-thrill, which also brought
with it a sense of dismay.

Could it be possible, came the simultaneous thought, that she had
bestowed her affections upon a man whom she did not know--with whom she
had never exchanged half a dozen sentences--who had flashed like a
meteor, once or twice, across her path and was gone, perhaps never to
appear again?

Ah! but it was true, nevertheless. Soul meets soul in the flash of an
eye, through the tones of the voice, and the touch of a hand, and, like
a revelation, there came to her the consciousness of the fact that when
she had stood before Clifford Faxon, more than six years previous, she
had recognized in him--even though he had spoken no word in response to
her impulsive outburst of gratitude--a nature the counterpart and,
therefore, the companion of her own, and with this unveiling of the holy
of holies within her soul came the realization that no other would
satisfy the cravings of her heart.

At the same time, she was under no obligation to make Philip Wentworth
her father confessor, and she resented his imperative demand that she do
so. She drew herself up with quiet dignity as she coldly replied:

"Excuse me, Phil, but I think you are overstepping the bounds of both
courtesy and friendship in asking me such questions."

Philip sprang to his feet, his face a sheet of flame.

"You do not deny it," he cried angrily.

"I neither admit nor deny," said Mollie, as she also arose and stood
before him with a regal air. "I simply say that you have--as indeed no
one else has--the right to question me in the way you have done.
Whatever concerns you personally, you, of course, have a right to know
about. I have answered you frankly and as kindly as I knew how, and that
must settle it. Now"--her manner suddenly changing to her old-time
graciousness, and holding out her hand, with a charming smile--"shall we
drop it and still be the best of friends?"

He regarded her in silence for a moment. She was inexpressibly lovely,
and would have disarmed a savage; but his pride was wounded, and his
heart was filled with rage at the thought of being balked in his
determination to subjugate her to his will.

"No!" he said shortly, "there is no meaning for me in the word 'friend'
where you are concerned."

He turned abruptly from her as he ceased and walked from the room and
the house, taking no pains to close the door after him.

Mollie stood where he had left her for a full minute, a grave expression
on her fair face. Then she drew a long, deep breath, and her lips curled
with contempt:

"He could not stand the test--he is not worthy to be my friend, even,"
she murmured; "he is selfish to the core, for, since he cannot have just
what he wants, he repudiates all, turns and cruelly wounds the one he
has pretended to love. It is himself he loves--not me; and I am glad
that everything is finally settled between us. Still, I am sadly
disappointed in my old-time friend."

She sighed regretfully as she thought of the failure he was making of
life, for he had had every advantage, and had he appreciated and
improved his opportunities a brilliant career might have been his, while
now he was only an idle seeker after pleasure.

Then, in striking contrast to this pampered young man of fortune, there
arose before her the sunburned, bareheaded, coarsely clad lad to whom
she owed her life, and who, by his own efforts, had overcome every
obstacle and distanced Philip Wentworth at college.

Clifford Faxon might never rise socially to the position that was
accorded Philip in the fashionable world--he might never acquire great
wealth, but she felt that he had already attained that which was far
more grand and desirable than fame or fortune--a noble manhood and the
pursuit of some worthy object in life. In the midst of these reflections
Mollie blushed rosy red.

"Why do I allow my thoughts to dwell upon him?" she exclaimed, with a
shrug of her shoulders and a pretty assumption of impatience; "he is the
same as a stranger to me, and I may never see him again. How foolish I
am!"

Nevertheless, Clifford Faxon's strong, handsome face haunted her
continually, and even in her dreams that night she saw a shapely hand
outstretched to her; in its palm there lay a heart pierced with an
arrow, its feather the shade of her own bright hair, and on the hand
there gleamed a well-remembered cameo ring.

The following morning brought another trial to Mollie, and one which she
had never dreamed of being subjected to. When she entered Monsieur
Lamonti's office at the usual hour, she found him already there, but
looking unusually grave and preoccupied. She bade him a cheerful "bon
jour," to which he courteously but, to her sensitive ear, rather coldly
responded.

"Yes," he briefly replied, "Lucille is well."

Mollie began to wonder if anything had gone wrong in connection with his
business; or if, by any possibility she had made a mistake that required
a reproof, which he might be very loath to administer; or perhaps he
might not be feeling well, and did not realize how constrained his
manner was.

However, she slipped quietly into the chair before her desk and began
her work, but with a strange feeling of sadness and embarrassment
oppressing her. She wrote steadily for more than an hour, during which
time not a word was spoken by either occupant of the room.

Then, all at once, Monsieur Lamonti laid down his pen and, wheeling
around in his chair, faced her.

"Will mademoiselle be kind enough to give me her attention for a few
moments?" he gravely questioned. "I have something of importance to
communicate to her."

Mollie grew suddenly pale with apprehension. Oh! could it be possible
that Monsieur Lamonti was contemplating some change that would deprive
her of her position? Maybe he was on the point of returning to France,
or had been assigned to some other station in the United States to
continue his public duties. What could she do--where turn for employment
in such an emergency?

"Certainly, monsieur," she managed to falter, as she mechanically placed
a paper-weight upon the sheet before her; then tried to smile bravely as
she turned her colorless face to him to await her sentence, whatever it
might be.

The man started violently as he bent his searching glance upon her.

"Ah mademoiselle, you are surely ill!" he exclaimed in a voice of alarm.
"Pardon me that I have not before observed the fact. Why--why have you
come to work if you are not well?"

Something in his look and tone brought the truant color back to her face
in a crimson flood.

"Thank you, monsieur, but I am perfectly well."

Then, with a smile and her habitual frankness, she explained:

"I am only in suspense since, from monsieur's manner, I have inferred
that something is wrong; that perhaps you may have disagreeable tidings
for me."

It was now the gentleman's turn to change color and to look disturbed.
Then he broke forth with characteristic impetuosity:

"Pardon--a thousand pardons, mademoiselle, if I have caused you one
moment of anxiety or suffering! Yes, I have been thoughtless--I have
been distrait, but not because I have any ill news to impart; but
because I had decided to ask mademoiselle an important question this
morning. Mademoiselle Heatherford, will you do me the honor--the supreme
happiness--to become my wife?"




CHAPTER VII.

A CRITICAL SITUATION.


Mollie was stunned by this wholly unexpected contretemps, and she lifted
to Monsieur Lamonti a face expressive of the blankest astonishment.

"Ah! I have taken mademoiselle entirely by surprise! I see--I
understand!" he said, apologetically, though a faint smile flitted
across his lips. "Pray forgive me, mon ami; but let me explain, and then
I am sure you will not wonder so much. You have seen that I am a very
lonely man, without kith or kin. I have nothing in life to comfort me or
to throw one ray of sunshine along my path but the little Lucille. This
has been so for years, but since mademoiselle came to me I have known
more of enjoyment, I have had more pleasure in her society than I have
experienced since I lost my dear children--Lucille's father and mother.
Mademoiselle is beautiful, accomplished; she was reared for something
far better than to work out a weary life at a desk. She has earned my
profoundest respect, my gratitude and admiration by her many rare
qualities of heart and mind, her amiable and sunny temperament and her
faithfulness in my service.

"My home is very lonely, mademoiselle; my little Lucille needs the
tender care, the gentle restraining hand, and the cultivated presence of
something better than a nursemaid or governess; she requires some one
who would exercise the wise guidance and authority of a mother, and she
has become very fond of you, mon ami. I do not ask--I do not expect
mademoiselle to bestow upon me the affection which she might perhaps
accord to a younger man; and yet----" he faltered slightly and flushed;
"such regard would make me supremely happy, for I have grown to love her
most tenderly. Mademoiselle is leading a life of toil--she has
perplexing home cares and sorrows, but these can all be mitigated to a
great extent; for her father shall become my care also, and her future
shall not have a single cloud to mar it, if it is in the power of man
and money to prevent it. Mademoiselle, will you honor me by accepting my
hand, my heart and my fortune?--become the mistress of my home, and take
your rightful position in society, where you are so well fitted to
shine.

"If----" he added, after a moment of awkward silence, for Mollie was
still too astonished and overcome to utter a word; "if I have been too
abrupt, mon ami, and you do not feel prepared to answer me at present,
pray take time--as long as you wish--to consider the matter, and I will
patiently await your decision."

Mollie was not only astonished, she was also deeply touched by this
unlooked-for proposal, which seemed to her a most pathetic appeal from
this distinguished gentleman, whose history had been so sad and whose
life had been so lonely. She knew that there was very little in it, even
now, to make it enjoyable, notwithstanding his great wealth and the
enviable position that he occupied.

Of course, he loved his little granddaughter with all his heart; indeed,
his every hope hitherto had been centered upon her; but she could
readily understand that it would be utterly impossible for a child like
Lucille to satisfy the requirements of a nature like that of Monsieur
Lamonti.

He was cultured and intellectual, and, naturally, he desired congenial
companionship. In his magnificent home there was not one with whom he
could converse upon terms of equality, either mentally or socially, or
who could sympathize with him in any of the affairs or interests of his
life.

He had been into society but little during his residence in Washington,
for, as he had told her, he had no heart for the gaieties of the world,
since he was doomed to go alone wherever he was invited, while, too,
with no mistress at the head of his own establishment he could not
entertain in return for such courtesies.

Surely, Mollie told herself, it was a desolate existence for one like
him to lead, for he was a polished gentleman, of high attainments,
brilliant in conversation, and well calculated to shine among the many
noted and distinguished people in the nation's capital. But, in spite of
her genuine respect and admiration, together with her deepest sympathy;
in spite of his wealth and position and the tempting future which he had
offered her, she could not become his wife.

Mollie was too true, too conscientious a woman to marry any man whom
she could not love with all her heart, even though she would have
enjoyed the luxuries to which, nearly all of her life, she had been
accustomed, and with which she would have so liked to surround her
father; while she did sometimes yearn in secret for the old-time
gaieties and society from which she now seemed to be entirely shut out.

All these things had flashed through her brain while Monsieur Lamonti
was talking, but never for an instant did she waver from what she knew
was right and just to herself and to him. As he concluded she lifted her
grave, sweet eyes to his face.

"Monsieur Lamonti," she began, and her voice was husky from repressed
feeling; "you have indeed surprised me beyond measure, for I certainly
never dreamed that you entertained for me the feelings you have
expressed--although I have congratulated myself that I possessed your
esteem and friendly interest. It grieves me that I am obliged to
disappoint you; but, monsieur, I must be true to myself and to you. I
could not become the wife of any man unless I had first given him the
deepest affection of my heart. While I have, during our relations as
employer and employee, learned to regard you as a true friend--my best
and almost my only one, I may say, since nearly all who knew me in more
prosperous days have deserted me--still, such a regard would satisfy
neither you nor me if we should assume closer ties. Believe me, dear
Monsieur Lamonti, I feel greatly honored by your preference, and am also
deeply grateful to you for your many kindnesses to both my father and
myself. Forgive me if there has ever been the slightest indication in
my manner to encourage you to infer----"

"There has not, mademoiselle, I assure you," Monsieur Lamonti
interposed, as she flushed and faltered; "there has been nothing in your
manner at any time to show me that you regarded me other than as a
friend. It was alone my affection for you--my intense yearning for the
presence of a charming woman in my home, to be a companion to and in
sympathy with me and to help me to rear Lucille, which emboldened me to
ask you to be my wife. Ah! mademoiselle, you do not know the grief, the
sorrow I feel! If you would but reconsider--take time to try to--to grow
fond of me; if I could but have a little hope," he concluded in a voice
so eager, yet, withal, so sad and tremulous that tears sprang
involuntarily to Mollie's eyes.

"Monsieur, it would not be right; I--I could not bid you hope; my answer
must be final," she almost sobbed, for his pathetic appeal had very
nearly unnerved her. Monsieur Lamonti was very pale; but after a moment
of silence he pulled himself together bravely.

"Pardon--pardon, mademoiselle; the sorrow--the annoyance I have
occasioned you," he said, with grave courtesy. "I bow to the inevitable;
you have been most kind, and we will regard the matter as if it had
never been. But, mon ami," and now he turned to her with his old kindly
smile, "leaving all that forever, may I now presume to ask a great favor
of you?"

"Certainly, monsieur; you must know that anything in my power I would
gladly do for you," Mollie cordially, even eagerly, returned.

"Many thanks; but perhaps I am a trifle premature. I should first have
told you what I desire before asking your promise. However, you are free
to refuse if you find the matter not one to your taste. I have told you
that I have no kith or kin--that aside from Lucille, I am absolutely
alone in the world. You can readily perceive that, should anything
happen to--to remove me, the child would be left without a
protector--without a soul to feel the slightest interest in her. Now,
mademoiselle, the favor I wish to crave is a great one--will you, in the
event of which I have spoken, assume the guardianship of my little
girl?"

Mollie's breath was almost taken away again, and she regarded her
companion in grave wonderment.

"I, monsieur! Could you trust me with so sacred a charge?" she
questioned in a voice of awe. "I am very young; I have never had any
experience with children, and it seems a grave responsibility!"

"Mademoiselle, I could trust you with--ah! have I not asked you to care
for the greatest treasure the world holds for me, and could I manifest
greater confidence in you?" responded Monsieur Lamonti, while he
regarded the girl with a look that betrayed far more than his words.

"I have seen," he went on, "that you are fond of Lucille--she adores
you. You have been carefully reared; you are a gentlewoman in every
sense of the word, and if my little one could become like you--could be
shielded in the future by your love and guidance, and grow up pure and
good and noble, I could ask nothing better for her on earth. You
understand, mademoiselle, this arrangement is to be contingent only upon
my demise, and I may live many years yet. I simply wish to make sure
that she will not be left to the care and cupidity of strangers, and
there will be ample remuneration for you, to enable you to live even
more comfortably than at present. Also I should leave all financial
matters so compactly arranged that you would have very little care in
the management of them. I would not like to burden you in any way except
to make sure that Lucille will be wisely and kindly nurtured. May I
depend upon you, mon ami?"

Mollie did not reply immediately. To grant Monsieur Lamonti's request
seemed like assuming a very grave responsibility, and she was wondering
within herself if she dare attempt it.

"Yes, I love dear little Lucille, and I believe she loves me," she
finally murmured, more to herself than in reply to her companion. "I am
sure it would be a pleasure to me to have the child with me; she would
be like a young sister, and to guard and watch her development would be
a very interesting and a great delight--if I were sure that I am equal
to the task----"

"But the trust must be confided to some one," Monsieur Lamonti here
interposed, "and will mademoiselle kindly allow me to be the judge of
what is best for my darling?"

Mollie was deeply touched by this evidence of his confidence in her, and
she felt that he was paying her the highest tribute which it was
possible for one human being to confer upon another. She looked up at
him with a tremulous smile and eyes full of tears.

"Yes," she said, with evident emotion, "and I solemnly assure you that I
will do the very best that I am capable of, for her."

"Mademoiselle does not need to promise me that; it is her nature to do
her best under all circumstances," replied the gentleman heartily, "and
she has my everlasting gratitude."

"Thank you, my friend, for your kindly praise, and believe me, I
sincerely appreciate the trust you repose in me; let us hope that for
many years you two may be spared to each other--until, perhaps, Lucille
will be old enough and wise enough to choose a protector for life, and
you will give her away with your blessing."

Monsieur Lamonti smiled in sympathy with her mood, then reaching out his
hand he clasped hers as if to ratify the compact they had made and
observed.

"Thank you, mademoiselle; you always comfort and cheer me. May the good
God bless you."

Both resumed their work, and nothing save business was mentioned during
the remainder of the morning, while Monsieur Lamonti's manner was the
same as usual, courteous and kind, and without a vestige of
disappointment or chagrin to betray how sorely he had been smitten by
Mollie's rejection of his suit.

After partaking of her lunch that afternoon Mollie could not seem to
settle down to either reading or work. Her thoughts were full of the
events of the morning, and the grave responsibility she had assumed, and
she finally became so nervous that she resumed her street costume and
started out again to visit the Corcoran Art Gallery, hoping to forget
her anxiety.

It was between three and four when she reached the gallery, and she soon
became so absorbed in the treasures of art all about her, she did not
observe the flight of time, especially as the various rooms were
artificially lighted, until notice was given that it was time to close
the building.

As she stepped out upon the street she was surprised to find how dark it
had grown. Heavy clouds had covered the sky, a fine mist was falling,
and the short winter's day, dawning to its close, seemed exceedingly
gloomy and depressing.

Drawing her coat-collar up about her throat and face, for the air was
keen, she hurried on her way toward home, deciding that walking would be
preferable to standing upon a corner to wait for a trolley in the rain.

When she finally turned off the avenue into a side street, where the
residences were some distance apart, and which was not particularly well
lighted, she suddenly become conscious some one was following her.

With a heart-throb of fear, she quickened her steps. The figure behind
her did the same. Then she walked more slowly in order to allow the man
to pass her. In another moment he was beside her, when, with all her
pulses throbbing like trip-hammers, she realized that he was
intoxicated.

"Fine evening, miss," he remarked in a voice which, although rather
thick and unsteady, seemed strangely familiar.

Her assailant was quite tall, but it was too dark to see his figure
distinctly, while a slouch-hat was drawn so far down over his face that
his features were almost entirely concealed. But Mollie was too
frightened to observe him closely, and vouchsafing no reply to his
remark, quickened her steps again.

The man reached out his hand and laid hold upon her arm, exclaiming:

"Hold on, now--hic--my pretty one. I'sn't--ah--dignified to run. Just
le' me--hic--see you home; then I'll take a--hic--kiss and we'll call
it--hic--square."

Mollie stopped short, her ears actually ringing from the rapid beating
of her heart, while her blood was boiling with mingled disgust and
indignation. She swept his hand from her arm with a force that made him
stagger. But he was too quick for her, and clutched it again instantly.

"Don't dare to touch me! Do not presume to detain me!" she cried
authoritatively.

But his fingers only closed more roughly over her wrist.

"Come, come, pretty one, don't be--hic--offish; or If you're in
such--hic--a deuced hurry I'll take the--hic--kiss now and let
you--hic--go."

He drew her toward him as if to put his threat into execution, but
before Mollie's frightened cry for help had barely escaped her lips, the
hand was stricken from her arm and her assailant lay sprawling upon the
ground at her feet, while she turned with a long breath of relief to
find another stalwart figure close beside her.




CHAPTER VIII.

CLIFFORD MEETS HIS IDOL.


The night was so dark, the mist so heavy and the street so illy lighted
that Mollie could not clearly see either of her companions; but as she
turned to the stranger who had appeared upon the scene so opportunely, a
feeling of perfect confidence took possession of her, for his dignified
and self-assured bearing inspired her with a sense of absolute security.

"Oh, thank you! thank you!" she breathed gratefully though tremulously,
as she involuntarily drew nearer to him.

"I am very glad that I happened to be near," the gentleman replied in a
rich, deep but pleasantly modulated voice. "I was just passing out of a
gate opposite when I heard you call. The wretch was very bold to assail
you on the street at this hour of the evening! Is he intoxicated?"

"I think so," said Mollie, and speaking more calmly now, for she was
fast recovering her self-possession, "and I am very thankful to you for
your timely assistance, I----"

A groan from the prostrate man interrupted her at this point, and both
she and her companion turned at the sound.

"Well, sir, what is it?" curtly demanded the stranger, as he bent over
him and tried to get a view of his face.

"You've given me a nasty blow, whoever you are; curse you!" he growled,
as he made an effort to regain his feet.

But he seemed to find it a difficult achievement, and the stranger
grasped him by the arm and assisted him to rise.

"There you are," he said, "now can you walk?"

Again his victim groaned as he attempted to take a step or two, and
almost fell a second time.

"Well you are a trifle the worse for your fall, that is a fact," his
companion observed. "I will help you to the corner, where you can get
either a carriage or a car to take you home; and, now, if you will
accept a bit of friendly advice, I will suggest that you keep your brain
clearer in the future, when perhaps you will not be tempted to assault
unprotected women in the street and get yourself into trouble again."

Mollie's recent assailant wrenched his arm from the other's grasp with
another oath, and, bending forward, tried to peer into the face before
him. His fall evidently had not disabled him so seriously as he had at
first feared, while the shock had served to sober him somewhat.

"Look here!" he exclaimed in a supercilious tone; "I've a notion that I
know who you are, and this isn't the first time, either, that you have
interfered with me in what was none of your business. I know you, Faxon,
and I swear I'll make you sweat for this!"

Clifford Faxon--for it was he--now bent forward and peered into the
face of the speaker, even though he had already recognized the speaker.

"Great heavens!" he exclaimed in a voice resonant with mingled disgust
and indignation, "have you descended so low as this, Wentworth?"

A startled cry broke from Mollie at this point, and she swept close to
the young man's side.

"Philip Wentworth!" she gasped, and now she knew why his voice had
sounded familiar to her, although, having been under the influence of
liquor, his utterance had been very indistinct, while fear had so
changed hers that, in his drunken condition, he had failed to recognize
it. But as she now spoke his name a terrible shock went through him,
sobering him completely.

"Mollie! Good God!" he cried in a tone of mingled mortification and
dismay, while Clifford's heart leaped with joy as he caught the name.
The fair girl haughtily drew herself erect and away from him.

"Let this be the last time, Mr. Wentworth, that you ever address me so
familiarly; indeed, from this moment we are strangers."

"By all that is sacred, Mollie, I never dreamed that it was you."

Philip faltered with abject humility. "I swear----"

"Silence!" she commanded imperatively. "Never presume to call me
'Mollie' again. Of course I understand that you did not know me--neither
did I recognize you under existing conditions. But you did know that you
were insulting a woman, and the fact that you had no more respect for my
sex, whoever the individual might be, I regard as direct an outrage as
if you had known me."

"Come, now," said Philip appealingly, and his voice was husky with shame
and grief, "you are downright hard on a fellow. I was not quite myself,
I am bound to confess, and so not responsible----"

"Not responsible!" repeated Mollie with grave reproof. "Yes, you are
responsible; for you have no moral right to put yourself in a condition
that renders it unsafe for people to come in contact with you upon the
street, or elsewhere.

"Let me say one word more," she added more gently, yet not less
impressively, "for your mother's and sister's sake and for your own
good, I beg that you will forsake your cups and the aimless life you are
leading and try to live to some purpose in the future."

She stepped aside to allow him to pass, whereupon Clifford Faxon
considerately inquired:

"Shall I lend you an arm to the corner, Wentworth?"

"No!--you!" was the passionate response, as Philip angrily struck aside
the proffered support, almost beside himself with mingled shame and
rage, "and, let me repeat, that I will yet make you sorry for this
night's work." He turned his back upon them both and strode away
limping, but not nearly so badly crippled as his companions had feared
he might be.

Then Mollie stepped forward to Clifford.

"Mr. Faxon," she said, and extending her hand to him, "this is the third
time that we have met under peculiar circumstances, all of which have
made me greatly your debtor. I am Miss Heatherford, and I have never
forgotten the hero of that exciting New Haven incident."

"Thank you, Miss Heatherford," Faxon returned, and tingling to his
finger-tips with rapture as he clasped the hand so cordially offered
him, "and let me assure you that I am very much pleased to meet you
again, and, at last, learn the name of one to whom I am also indebted. I
refer to the beautiful souvenir of the event of which you have spoken,
and which I have always treasured most sacredly. I am very glad I was at
hand to rescue you from your recent unpleasant experience. Now, may I
have the additional pleasure of attending you to your home? I should
feel very uncomfortable to allow you to go alone after the shock you
have received."

"Thank you; it is very kind of you to offer to attend me," Mollie
replied, and feeling much relieved in view of having a protector, for
she had been badly frightened. "But, Mr. Faxon, I am afraid it will seem
almost an imposition, for I have quite a walk yet," she added
doubtfully.

"That will not disturb me in the least," Clifford returned eagerly,
"though it is very damp, and perhaps you would prefer to take a car; in
either event, however, I shall not leave you until I see you safely
housed."

"Taking a car would not save me very much, as I must go back to
Pennsylvania Avenue to get one, and I would have just about the same
distance at the other end," said Mollie reflectively. "On the whole, I
believe I will take you at your word and we will walk."

"Thank you," Clifford responded so earnestly that Mollie smiled
involuntarily, while she experienced a peculiar exhilaration in his
companionship.

She unhesitatingly accepted the arm he offered her, and they fell into a
social chat which grew so absorbing to both that distance became of no
account, and Faxon was conscious of a sense of keen disappointment when
his companion finally paused before her own door.

"Why, Miss Heatherford, you told me it was a long walk; I did not
suppose we were half-way there yet!" he exclaimed in a tone that plainly
betrayed his regret.

"I think you must be a practised pedestrian, for it is very nearly a
mile," said Mollie with a silvery little laugh, "and, now, won't you
come in for a little rest before you make the return trip?"

Clifford would gladly have accepted the invitation and prolonged his
enjoyment of her society for another half-hour, but he did not feel
quite justified in doing so upon so short an acquaintance, and so
politely excused himself.

"Then some other evening, Mr. Faxon, I shall be happy to have you call
if you should feel inclined," Mollie cordially observed greatly to his
delight.

"Thank you, Miss Heatherford; it certainly will give me great pleasure
to do so, and I shall avail myself of the privilege at an early date,"
the young man responded, and he was on the point of bidding her good
evening when Mollie lifted a shy glance to him and said:

"I feel that I owe you an apology, Mr. Faxon, for not recognizing you a
few days ago when you saved me from having a fall from the car, but I
was so surprised at the unexpected meeting that I was momentarily
embarrassed, and so failed to do my duty."

"Pray do not be disturbed," Faxon returned with a heart-throb of
gladness. "I saw you were somewhat overcome, and the omission was not to
be wondered at under the circumstances."

"I knew you at once," Mollie continued naively and with charming
frankness, "and I feared afterward that you might attribute my seeming
neglect to an unworthy motive."

"Indeed, no--I hope I could not so wrong you, although you will allow me
to say that I was somewhat disappointed," Clifford replied in the same
spirit.

He then bade her a reluctant "good evening," lifted his hat, and went
away. It seemed to him that he was walking on air as he retraced his
steps up-town.

At last he had met and learned the name of the divinity who for years
had been his inspiration, whose fair face and deep blue eyes had haunted
both his waking and sleeping hours; whose sweet girlish tones and
thrilling words had rung like a melodious refrain in his ears for nearly
six long years.

It had been a great trial to him not to know who she was, and he had
been more irritated over the fact that Philip Wentworth had refused to
give him any information regarding her than he usually allowed himself
to become over anything. It had been like a poisoned dagger in his heart
when that young man had arrogantly boasted of his engagement to the girl
who had given him the cameo, which was the choicest treasure he
possessed.

But now he knew that Philip had lied--the occurrence of that evening had
proved to him that no such tie had ever existed between the two. To be
sure, Wentworth had addressed her by the familiar name "Mollie," but her
manner toward him had plainly indicated that, although she might
previously have regarded him as a friend, she had never surrendered her
heart into his keeping.

This assurance set every pulse bounding with a feeling of exultation,
and a vague, sweet hope that possibly he might yet awaken some
responsive chord in her nature that as yet had been untouched began to
take root in his heart.

He blessed the fates that had sent him upon an errand that night into
the locality where he had found her in trouble, and thus enabled him to
go to her rescue. Then that never-to-be-forgotten walk had seemed
leading him straight toward Paradise, the door of which Mollie had
opened to him by her invitation to call--a privilege of which he
resolved to avail himself at a very early day.

And three evenings later found him standing at her door, seeking
admittance.

Eliza answered his ring and showed him into the cosy homelike parlor,
and five minutes later Mollie appeared, looking charming in a dainty
house-gown of some soft, white material without an atom of color save
her blue eyes and glorious hair to mar its chaste simplicity.

She almost always wore white at home--it had been her custom since
childhood, for her father loved to see her in it.

She greeted Faxon with a cordiality which assured him that he was most
welcome, and his heart thrilled with joy unspeakable as he observed the
lovely color that suffused her face as he clasped her hand and responded
to her salutation. She put him at his ease at once by seating herself
near him and beginning to chat freely of Washington and its society; of
politics and politicians and various current topics. Then she gradually
drifted to other things, and finally to their first meeting, after which
she adroitly led him to speak of his college life, struggles, and
experiences.

He was surprised to find how freely and almost involuntarily he opened
his heart to her of those things which he had seldom mentioned to
others, and when he concluded he held up and showed her the cameo ring
upon his hand.

"It has been my mascot," he said, smiling, "and I can never make you
understand how much it has meant to me. But I never presumed to wear it
in public until the day I took my degree and only occasionally since."

"I am afraid you have prized my simple souvenir far beyond its worth,"
said Mollie, flushing. "It was really intended for a good-luck ring,
however. I purchased it, and had it marked for a cousin who was going
West to live, but as some one else had already given him a ring I kept
it and sent him something else. Have you discovered its little secret,
Mr. Faxon?"

"Yes," said Clifford, as he touched the spring and the stone lifted from
its place; but he did not tell her then how he had learned it, "and I
have wondered during all these years until I met you the other night
what these tiny initials stood for."

"Marie Norton Heatherford," Mollie repeated with a flush as she observed
the look with which he was regarding the letters.

Then to dispel the feeling of embarrassment she smilingly added:

"But, Mr. Faxon, I am afraid I should have felt that I was doing rather
a bold thing to offer a gentleman a ring marked with initials if I had
stopped to think about it that day--not that I regretted the ring,
believe me," she interposed, as he glanced up at her quickly, "it was a
very little thing to express all that I felt, but the letters rather
troubled me. I--I almost hoped you would not find them."

"Ah! but the initials and the horseshoe have been its chief charm to
me," Clifford returned earnestly; "somehow they seemed to be a link
between the giver and myself, although, of course, I did not know what
they stood for. And, now that I have met you again, may I have your
permission to wear it constantly?"

"By all means, if you wish--I am sure you will honor my little souvenir
by doing so," Mollie responded with downcast eyes and bounding pulses.

She began to tell him something of her own life since that day; how a
few days later she and her parents had sailed for Europe to remain for
several years; how she had lost her mother during her sojourn abroad,
and one misfortune followed another until just after her return to this
country the grand crash had come that had made her father penniless.

"Yes," she said, with a little regretful sigh at an exclamation of
sympathy from Faxon, "papa met with loss after loss, until a year and a
half ago we found that we were literally homeless and almost penniless.
A friend helped him to a position here in Washington, and for a while we
were very comfortable and happy; but papa lost his health, and for
several months past has been very ill--is, in fact, a hopeless invalid."

"That is very sad," Clifford gravely observed, "and the change in your
life must have seemed hard--even cruel."

"I don't know as I can say that," said Mollie reflectively; "I believe I
have rather enjoyed the change in some respects."

"Enjoyed it!" repeated her companion astonished.

"Yes," Mollie brightly affirmed, "for I then began to feel that I was
really of some use in the world. After papa gave up business I secured a
position, and I am now working regular hours every day; were it not for
my father's pitiable condition, I believe I should be perfectly happy. I
think it is grand to feel that one has the power to win one's own way in
the world."

Faxon regarded her with mingled admiration and sympathy. He knew just
the feeling she described, for he had experienced the same thrill of
proud independence while working his way through college and also since
he had begun to know something of the real business of life, in spite of
the many crosses and hardships that he had endured.

Then a wild, sweet hope took possession of his heart as he realized that
she no longer inhabited a sphere so far above him socially that she was,
as he had always believed her to be, utterly beyond his reach.

She was every whit as poor as himself, according to her own frank
acknowledgment--there was now no golden barrier between them. Why, then,
might he not hope to win her--this fair, brave, sweet girl who had been
the star and the inspiration of his life during the last six years?




CHAPTER IX.

LANGUAGE OF THE MOSS-ROSE.


"And so you do not regret the loss of fortune nor of fortune's friends?"
Clifford questioned, while with the fond, new hope in his heart he
regarded her with more of tenderness in his glance than he was aware of.

And Mollie flushed beneath his look, more because she was becoming
conscious that something within her was springing forth to meet that
which shone in his eyes than because of embarrassment.

"I cannot quite say that, Mr. Faxon," she gravely replied, "for I should
be glad of an independent income--even though it was small--that would
enable me to do more for my father and put him under the constant care
of experts; for, in spite of what the physicians have told me, I cannot
quite give up all hope. I cannot bear to think that he must live on
indefinitely in his present darkened mental condition.

"But as for myself," with an uplifting of her pretty head that denoted
conscious strength, "I do not regret the experience of the last two
years which the loss of fortune has brought me, and which has proved to
me that it is more noble and satisfactory to be a useful woman than a
butterfly of fashion. As for the 'friends of fortune,' that was well
put, Mr. Faxon, for those who have turned the cold shoulder upon me
were simply that and nothing more, and there is nothing to regret. It
is far better to have discovered the truth than to go on being cajoled
and deceived. I may say that there are but few whom I can regard as true
friends, and most of those I have made since I became a working girl.
What a queer world it is, isn't it? What a strange element there is in
humanity, which, as a rule--though there is now and then a rare
exception--does not take into account the real worth of an individual,
but is ready to hug to the heart a mental beggar and a moral leper,
provided he is sufficiently gilded with money. Can you explain it?"

"I think it can all be summed up in one word, Miss Heatherford, and that
is--selfishness," Clifford replied.

"Y--es," she thoughtfully assented, "and yet I think I should add pride,
vanity and ostentation."

"And what is pride but self-esteem, self-conceit? What are vanity and
ostentation but egotism and self-sufficiency?"

"You are right!" said Mollie, sitting suddenly erect, as if some new
thought had taken possession of her. "Why! I never thought of it before,
but the world--society so-called--is governed by selfishness!"

"I am afraid that is the fact, as a rule," assented the young man.

"How dreadful!" sighed his companion; "what veritable heathen idolaters
we are, in spite of our boasted civilization and Christianity; and how
little we know the meaning of the 'Golden Rule!'"

"That is true; self is the god of this world," said Clifford; "and when
we attempt to analyze humanity we find it in every phase of life.
Royalty 'lifts its crested head' and declares, 'I am enthroned; come not
near, except on bended knee.' The multimillionaire, with lofty air,
says, 'Keep a respectful distance, unless you can match my purse with
one as heavy.' The merchant and banker refuse to associate with their
butcher and grocer; the employer looks down upon his employee; the
mistress upon her maid; and so it goes all along down the line even to
newsboys and bootblacks; for----" and here Faxon laughed, "to
illustrate, I saw two boys on the street the other day; one had a bundle
of papers under his arm; the other was stationed on a corner, with his
kit for blacking boots. 'Hello!' called out the newsboy familiarly and
with an envious glance at the kit, 'how long yer ben at it?' 'Git out!'
cried the youthful proprietor loftily, 'I've gone inter biz for myself,
I have; an' we don't take newsboys inter our 'sociation.' So from the
crowned heads of royalty down to the bootblack, who lords it over the
peddler of papers, because he makes his nickel where the other gets but
a penny, we find the serpent self with its spirit of arrogance and
malicious sting."

"That is true," said Mollie, with a sigh, "and, worse than all, we find
it even in the churches, where the rich and intellectually proud hold
aloof from the poor widow and orphan and the beggar at their doors,
except, perhaps, to bestow, with lofty patronage a little of their
surplus wealth, and hoping thus to cancel their obligations as
Christians and believe that they have fulfilled the law of Love. Oh, I
am beginning to see how little the meaning of that word is understood."

"And it never will be understood until the world learns how to 'deny
self' and become 'poor in spirit,' as taught by the Great Teacher
nineteen centuries ago," Clifford supplemented in a reverent tone.

Mollie bent a thoughtful look upon his face. She thought him the
grandest character she had ever met. No young man of her acquaintance
had ever discussed such subjects in her presence before--they had always
been, for the most part, full of small talk, jest and compliment--and
she knew that most of her girl friends would have regarded such a
conversation as prosy and stupid.

But she liked it--it seemed to meet something that she had long hungered
for. Faxon had struck a note in nature that vibrated in keenest sympathy
and perfect harmony with his thought, and when they parted that evening
both felt as if they must have known each other for years.

After that they saw each other frequently. Mollie had invited him to
'come again,' and feeling that she was perfectly sincere, he had not
hesitated to avail himself of the privilege. Each time they met they
were drawn nearer each other, for they liked the same books and authors.
Faxon was a good reader, Mollie an appreciative listener, while they had
many an animated discussion over what they read.

They attended lectures, concerts and occasionally the theater and opera;
though Mollie would not go often to the latter place because of the
expense, which she doubted that Faxon could afford. But she told herself
that she had never enjoyed a winter, even during her palmiest days, as
she had enjoyed this one.

She well knew why; she had long known that she loved Clifford Faxon with
all her heart, and she was sure that he returned her affection, although
as yet no word of confession had escaped him. Nevertheless, she had
abundant evidence of the fact in his every act, in every glance of his
eyes and every tone of his voice. Yet she was not impatient--she was
content to bide his time, well knowing that when he felt it right to
speak he would do so.

Her new happiness added greatly to her loveliness. There was a brighter
light in her deep blue eyes, a sweeter, sunnier smile--if that were
possible--on her lips, a buoyancy, an elasticity in her every movement
and step which plainly betrayed that she loved to live and lived to
love.

Monsieur Lamonti was quick to observe these things, and wondered within
himself what had caused this radiant change in her. He was not long left
in doubt, for one afternoon he met the lovers, face to face, upon the
street.

Mollie stopped short in his path and greeted him cordially; then, with
beaming eyes and heightened color, introduced her companion. The three
stood chatting for a few moments, then parted and went their different
ways.

The next morning Monsieur Lamonti interrupted Mollie in her work, and,
after discussing two or three questions relating to business, suddenly
inquired:

"By the way, mademoiselle, allow me to ask who was the gentleman to whom
you introduced me yesterday? His name, of course, I know--Monsieur
Faxon--but is he an old or a new friend?"

Mollie blushed delightfully at the question.

"He is both, monsieur, if you can comprehend anything so paradoxical,"
she said with a musical little laugh of rippling happiness, and which
called an answering smile to her listener's lips. Then she went on and
frankly told him the whole of Cliff's history as far as she knew it,
from the time of her first meeting with him in the station at New Haven
to his coming to Washington, while Monsieur Lamonti appeared greatly
interested, and reading in the girl's every look and tone the sweet
love-story that was making her life so beautiful.

"Ah," he observed when she concluded, "Mr. Faxon is a self-made man; he
is doubtless a noble young man. I am sure he will rise yet higher and do
himself honor."

Mollie smiled with pleasure at his commendation of her lover.

"I also am sure he will," she said with shining eyes.

"And what is he doing now, mademoiselle?" queried the gentleman.

"At present he is in the Patent Office, with the expectation of a
promotion at the beginning of the year."

"Well, mademoiselle, it is evident he is a fine young fellow; he
certainly looks it; I am truly glad you have such a friend," said
Monsieur Lamonti, with a kindness and sincerity that touched Mollie
deeply.

He resumed his writing, and nothing more was said upon the subject, but
Mollie observed that, from time to time, he paused in his work and gazed
abstractedly out of the window, as if his thoughts were busy elsewhere.

A few days later on reaching the office she found a note from Clifford,
asking if she would go with him the following evening to hear Madam
Melba in "Faust."

He mentioned the fact that he was well acquainted with a prominent
member of the company, who had offered him complimentary tickets for a
box or any seats which he might prefer elsewhere in the house, and would
she please signify which she would like best.

Mollie smiled as she read the note. She knew it would be the "first
night" of the opera, and she understood that Clifford feared that she
either might not be able or wish to appear in evening dress, and so had
given her a choice of seats, while, too, it would settle the question
regarding what his own attire should be.

She responded cordially, saying she would be delighted to hear Melba,
and would enjoy the box if it would be agreeable to him. Clifford wrote
a clear, symmetrical hand, and before returning his missive to its
envelope Mollie passed it to Monsieur Lamonti, remarking that perhaps he
would like to see Mr. Faxon's penmanship.

"People claim, you know," she said, smiling, "that there is a great
deal of character expressed in a person's handwriting."

Monsieur Lamonti read the note, then passed it back to her with the
observation:

"It is certainly a fine hand, mademoiselle, and if it is an exponent of
Mr. Faxon's character, I should judge him to be a frank, honest,
high-minded young man."

Mollie was, of course, pleased with this tribute to her lover, for she
saw that it was sincere, while she knew that Monsieur Lamonti was a keen
observer, and she was sure that he regarded Clifford with approbation.

The next afternoon, while she was putting some finishing touches to an
evening dress which she had remodeled to wear to the opera, Monsieur
Lamonti's coachman drove to the door, and a few moments later Eliza came
to her, bringing a good-sized box.

On opening it, Mollie gave a cry of delight as her eyes fell upon a rare
collection of hot-house flowers, whose perfume filled the room, and
which she well knew, without glancing at the accompanying card, had been
culled from the greenhouse of her good friend.

"How kind, how thoughtful he always is!" she murmured appreciatively as
she buried her face in the mass of luxuriant bloom to inhale the
delicious fragrance.

Later, when Clifford called for her she was radiantly lovely in her
rich, lustrous silk of pale blue, another creation of Worth's, and a
remnant of her old-time glory which had long been packed away as
unsuitable to wear in her present circumstances. The dress, with a few
alterations, seemed almost like new.

She wore diamonds upon her neck and in her ears; also a dazzling
ornament in her golden hair, for her jewels--many of which had been her
mother's--had also been carefully stowed away, her father having
insisted that she should keep them, although she had cheerfully offered
to relinquish every one if such sacrifice would lighten his burdens in
any way. But he had told her, "No; every debt would be paid, and the
gems were too sacred to be surrendered."

Her hands and arms were encased in long white gloves, chosen from the
box with which Monsieur Lamonti had presented her, and as Faxon entered,
she was just tying a long ribbon around a bouquet which she had arranged
from Monsieur Lamonti's floral offering.

The young man's eyes glowed with tender admiration as Mollie went
forward to meet him.

"Ah," he said ingenuously and with a thrill of fondness in his voice as
he clasped her extended hand, "I am so glad you chose the box."

Mollie laughed musically, for his words told her that he had hoped to
find her in evening dress, and was more than pleased with her
appearance.

"It was very kind of you to give me the option," she replied with a
glance which plainly told him that she had understood his motive and
thoroughly appreciated it.

"Well," he observed, with a twinkle in his handsome eyes, "I thought we
might as well make the most of our opportunity. What lovely flowers!"

"They are, indeed!" she returned. "Monsieur Lamonti sent them."

Then as she glanced at the lapel of his coat she continued: "And you
must have a boutonniere; may I select something for you?"

"Not if you will have to rob this; I would not have a single blossom
disarranged," said Clifford, as he eyed the bouquet admiringly.

"Oh, no; I have quantities more," said Mollie, as she gently released
the hand which he had unconsciously been holding and turned to a table
which there was a large glass dish filled with flowers.

She bent over them and paused to consider what she would offer him.
Presently she detached three small crimson moss-rosebuds with a single
spray of green leaves and held them up before him.

"Will you wear these?" she queried.

A great shock went coursing through Clifford as he took them from her
white gloved hands and regarded them with a yearning look.

Then his eyes--almost black now with the intensity of his
emotion--sought her face.

"May I?" he breathed, "may I wear them with the assurance of what they
express? Do you know the language of the red moss-rosebud, Mollie?"

A scarlet flood leaped to the fair girl's temples as she realized, too
late, the significance of her gift; while his use of her given name, for
the first time, set every pulse to bounding wildly. She lifted a
startled look to his face; then as quickly her golden lashes dropped
upon her flaming cheeks.

"Yes, I know," she murmured, "but I did not think of it when I chose
them."




CHAPTER X.

MONSIEUR LAMONTI'S DEATH.


"I know you did not, love," Clifford returned as he bent forward and
gathered both her hands into his, "and it was an unfair question, I am
afraid. But I love you, dear--I love you. You must have seen it, you
must have read it for weeks, for my every thought has been of and for
you, and sometimes I have even dared to think that your thought has been
responsive to mine, assuring me that I had won your heart, and that my
future is to be crowned with the supreme blessing of your love. You do
not turn from me--you do not take your hands from mine--may I hope,
Mollie? Tell me that you love me--that you will be my wife when I shall
have won a position worthy to offer you. May I wear the buds as the
token of your assent? Oh, my darling, where can I find language to tell
you all that is in my heart? Tell me--tell me!"

His passionate emotion moved her deeply, although his voice had been
raised scarcely above a whisper. His fond words, his rich, thrilling
tones were like the solemn notes of an organ. She never had been so
supremely happy in her life as at that moment, and yet she wanted to
weep.

But her whole heart went out to him. She lifted her eyes to his and they
were brimming with tears.

"Yes, you know--you must have long known that I love you, Clifford,"
she whispered.

He could not speak for the moment. He was white, even to his lips, with
joy that was beyond words. He lifted her hands and laid them about his
neck; then his arms slid around her graceful form and drew her to his
breast, where he held her close--so close that she could both feel and
hear the throbbing of his heart.

They stood thus for a few moments, speechless from the consciousness of
the sacred union. At length Clifford gently released her and, fondly
placing one hand beneath her chin, lifted her face and scanned it
earnestly.

"Tears?" he said softly.

"Yes," said Mollie, with a shy, sweet laugh, "my cup is so full it
cannot hold all my joy, and some had to brim over."

"Sweetheart!" he murmured, but he still continued to study her face with
a look that seemed to have something of wonderment in it.

"Why do you look at me like that? Of what are you thinking?" Mollie
inquired.

"I am wondering how it would have been with us if Mr. Heatherford had
never lost his millions," said the young man reflectively.

"Clifford!" cried Mollie, in a tone of reproach, "you know I should have
loved you just the same; but I am glad that I am poor, for I am awfully
afraid if I had not been, you would have been too proud to tell me what
you have told me to-night."

"Suppose such had been the case?" he smilingly questioned.

"I--I think I should have made you confess it somehow," she replied with
an imperative little tap of her foot, "or"--with a gleam of mischief in
her happy eyes, "I might have unsexed myself and proposed to you--oh! I
am afraid I almost did as it is," she concluded, flushing again rosily
as she thought of the rosebuds.

He laughed joyously and caught her to him again; then, bending his
handsome head, he kissed her softly, reverently on her lips.

"I shall never wear anything but the red moss-rose after this," he said,
"and now after you have fastened them in for me, we must go, or we shall
be late for the opera. And I nearly forget, dear--I have tickets for
to-morrow night to see Willard in the 'Professor's Love-story.'"

"Aren't you getting dissipated, Cliff?" questioned Mollie chidingly.

"Wouldn't you like to see the play?"

Mollie took the rosebuds daintily in her white-gloved fingers, shot a
sly glance up at him as she kissed them, then slipped them deftly into
the buttonhole and fastened them there.

"Yes. Willard is fine," she said, "but I'm afraid that I am not quite so
deeply interested in the 'Professor's Love-story' just at present as I
am in my own."

"My darling!" said Faxon in a voice that was tremulous with his new,
great happiness as he pressed his lips upon her white forehead. Then he
lifted a beautiful opera-cloak that was hanging over a chair, and laid
it over her shoulders.

It was made of white brocaded satin, trimmed with ermine, and her
golden-crowned head, with the crescent of flashing diamonds rising out
of its snowy whiteness, made him think of some rare and beautiful
flower.

"My own, you look like a queen in your coronation-robe, and I feel like
a king who has just been crowned," he fondly murmured as he fastened the
silver clasp beneath her chin.

"You are a king, Cliff--my king," Mollie softly responded.

A minute later they were rolling swiftly up-town, sitting hand in hand
and feeling as if an enchanted future lay before them.

The house was filled and brilliant with a first-night audience as they
stepped within their box, and many a glass was leveled at the peerlessly
beautiful girl and her handsome escort, with expressions of mingled
admiration, wonder, and curiosity. As it happened, Philip Wentworth and
his mother were located in the box directly opposite, and both gave a
start of undisguised surprise as Mollie took her seat, for they
recognized her instantly.

"Why, Phil!" exclaimed Mrs. Temple, "she really looks like the old-time
Mollie, doesn't she? She still has her diamonds, I see, and I suppose no
one here would believe she had ever worn that dress before. I recognize
it, however, although I must confess it looks just as fresh as it did
when she arrived from Paris. She is downright beautiful, Phil! Oh, dear!
I wish they hadn't lost their money. Do you know who that is with her?
It seems as if I had seen him before."

"He's that cad Faxon--blast him!" Philip replied, his face flaming with
sudden anger and shame.

"Why do you call him that, Phil?--he certainly looks like a gentleman.
Oh, by the way, isn't he the young man who worked his own way through
Harvard and took the second honor in your class?"

"Yes."

"And he is the one who had that ring of Mollie's. Did you ever find out
how he came by it?"

"No." He preferred to lie about it rather than explain Faxon's heroic
deed.

"Mercy, Phil, how monosyllabic you are," said Mrs. Temple as she shot a
curious sidelong glance at him. "I fully intended to ask Mollie about it
when she returned, but I never thought of it. Have you any idea how he
became acquainted with Mollie?"

"How should I know?" queried Philip evasively, but he found great
difficulty in controlling himself sufficiently to preserve a respectful
tone, and his hands were so tightly clenched that the nails actually cut
the palms.

The sight of the couple opposite had brought vividly to his mind the
night when he had overtaken and insulted Mollie upon the street and
Faxon had come to the rescue. He had never seen either of them since,
but he had felt deeply humiliated every time he had thought of the
affair, and his old hatred of Clifford increased a hundred-fold in view
of the indignity, merited though it was, that he had suffered at his
hands.

"How handsome he is!" he mentally exclaimed as he studied those bright
faces. "He is dressed in the very latest style, too, and I wonder where
he gets the cash to sport a box? And Mollie--she is just too lovely for
anything!" A shaft of pain went quivering through him from head to foot
as he feasted his eyes upon her beauty.

"There is no one like her--and I love her in spite of everything," he
went on, choking back something very like a sob, "but, of course, she
must positively hate me now. What a fool I was not to have made sure
that she was a stranger before I spoke to her that night!"

These were some of the thoughts which thronged Philip Wentworth's brain
as he sat and watched the young couple, paying very little heed to the
brilliant prima donna on the stage.

The footlights were bright enough to enable him to see their every
movement--almost their every look, and he was quick to observe Faxon's
tender glance and manner whenever he addressed his fair companion; while
Mollie's varying color, the glad light in her eyes, whenever they met
his, and the happy smiles that rippled over her lips were simply
maddening to his jealous heart, and aroused a terrible fear within him.

"By Jove!" he said to himself, a cold chill creeping over him. "I
believe, upon my soul that there is an understanding between them, and
it would certainly cap the climax of the worst I ever dreamed if he
should win her."

He could not tell whether Mollie was conscious of his and his mother's
presence or not. Of course, he knew that the occupants of one box were
just as conspicuous as those in another, and two or three times he had
seen her lift her gold-mounted glass and sweep the house. But if she had
seen them she gave no sign of the fact.

He wondered if she would preserve the strict letter of the sentence
which she had pronounced upon him the last time they met, if he should
happen to encounter her again, and he was soon to have that question
settled beyond all doubt.

When the opera was over and while Mollie and Clifford were waiting at
the entrance of the theater for their carriage, Philip and his mother
came upon them suddenly.

Mrs. Temple, finished woman of the world though she was, was taken aback
a trifle, and the warm color flushed to her face. Yet she greeted Mollie
with something of her old-time cordiality, for the girl was so
exquisitely lovely that her heart involuntarily warmed toward her.

Still there was a certain reserve in her manner which Mollie was quick
to feel, although she responded with equal courtesy. She was keenly
sensitive to the fact also that Mrs. Temple had felt no interest to seek
her out, even though she had been in Washington many weeks; but, at the
same time, she bore herself with a quiet dignity, which plainly
betrayed that it would take more than the loss of property and
fair-weather friends to crush either her spirit or self-respect.
Moreover, when Phil advanced as his mother moved on she looked him full
in the face and gave him the cut direct.

He was as white as his immaculate tie as he strode on, inwardly foaming
with mingled rage and mortification. He knew now that she would adhere
to what she had said. She had taken her stand and would maintain it, and
he realized that he fully merited the punishment meted out to him. But
to see her standing so proudly by the side of the man whom he both
envied and hated, and leaning upon his arm with that air of confidence
and content, was almost more than he could endure and retain his
self-control.

Clifford had been a deeply interested observer of the little scene.
Philip Wentworth and his mother had taken no more notice of him than if
he had been simply one of the pillars which supported the arch above
them.

Mollie also had observed Philip's slight and resented it, her hand
involuntarily closing over Cliff's arm, and thus betraying her
indignation. Possibly she might not have been quite so frigidly
statuesque but for that.

"I did not care to introduce you to Mrs. Temple, dear," she explained to
Clifford as soon as they were seated in their carriage. "I am afraid,
though, it made it a trifle awkward for you; but I hope you do not
mind."

"Not in the least, for, of course, it was her place to recognize me,
since we had met before," Faxon smilingly returned.

"What!" cried Mollie, in resentful astonishment, "and she presumed to
ignore you!"

"It is barely possible that she did not recognize me," the young man
quietly replied, although he was quite sure to the contrary, for he had
not been unobservant of the interest which the occupants of the box
opposite his own had manifested in connection with Mollie and himself
during the evening.

Then he told her something of the circumstances of his meeting with Mr.
Temple on the campus at Cambridge four years previous.

"Well, it is the way of the world I suppose," said Mollie with a gentle
sigh. "She used to appear to be very fond of me when we lived in New
York, and we have exchanged visits many times, but she, like others, has
given me a very cold shoulder since I became the child of misfortune,
and what makes it seem worse in this case is the fact that Mr. Temple
was responsible for the climax of my father's financial ruin."

She explained as well as she was able how this had happened, but the
lovers soon drifted to more agreeable topics, and, caring little for
either the smiles or frowns of the Temples, or of any one else, in fact,
for they were far too deeply absorbed in their own new-found
happiness--their world, for the present at least, was circumscribed by
each other and their individual interests.

But for Mollie the tables were soon to be turned by a most unexpected
and signal triumph--a triumph which caused many an old friend (?) a
taste of bitter regret and mortification.

About a week later, on entering Monsieur Lamonti's office, she found
her friend absent and a note lying on her desk. It proved to be from her
employer, who mentioned that he was a trifle under the weather, but
requested that she would go on with her work as far as she was able and
then come to him for instructions.

She worked diligently until nearly noon, then, finding that she could do
no more without explicit directions, she donned her hat and jacket and
proceeded to Monsieur Lamonti's residence.

She found him ill in bed with a violent cold, and quite feverish, but he
assured her that he would be all right in a day or two, when he would
rejoin her at the office.

But the next morning a note from Nannette announced that he was worse,
and as Mollie could not work alone, she went to the house, where she
spent most of the day caring for Lucille, in order to allow the maid to
give her undivided attention to her master. She left about five o'clock
feeling greatly depressed, for Monsieur Lamonti had grown steadily
worse, and the physician had told her that he was a very sick man,
though he might pull through--a few hours would decide the matter.

Faxon spent the evening with her, and she was somewhat cheered by his
presence. He left her at ten, but had not been gone fifteen minutes when
Mollie heard a carriage dash up to the door and the next moment the bell
clanged a vigorous and imperative peal.

She rushed to the door to find Monsieur Lamonti's footman standing
without and looking pale and anxious.

"Oh! what is it?" she breathed in an almost inarticulate voice.

"The master is going, miss, for sure, and wants to see you," the man
replied.

Mollie seized a long wrap and, while she was fastening it about her,
explained to Eliza that she should be away all night. The next minute
she was inside the carriage and being whirled at a rapid rate toward the
Lamonti mansion.

She was comparatively calm when she arrived and followed the weeping
Nannette to her master's room without a word, although she held the
girl's hand in a clasp of sympathy on the way hither.

She was terribly shocked at the change in her kind friend which the last
few hours had made, but she gave no outward sign of this except that she
was very pale.

She found the physician, a trained nurse, and Monsieur Lamonti's lawyer
present; but paying no heed to them she walked quietly to the bedside,
where she sat down and took the hand which the man weakly extended to
her. He was white as wax, but very calm, and smiled as his fingers
closed over hers. He glanced up at his lawyer.

"Tell them to go out," he said, indicating the nurse, Nannette, and the
physician, and as they passed from the room Mollie bent over her friend.

"You sent for me," she said gently, "what can I do for you?"

"Just this, mademoiselle," he replied gravely, but speaking with
difficulty, "you have promised to care for my Lucille, to rear and
educate her carefully, to be, in fact, a mother to her, as well as her
legal guardian until she is of age or marries?"

"Yes," briefly but solemnly assented Mollie.

He thanked her with a little pressure of her hand.

"I have left explicit instructions," he resumed after a moment. "I have
made all my wishes known in my will. Promise me that you will heed them
all, that every one shall be carried out as I have directed," he
concluded with impressive earnestness.

"I know you would not ask anything impossible of me, dear friend, so I
cheerfully promise," Mollie unhesitatingly responded.

"Swear it, mademoiselle," said Monsieur Lamonti, glancing at the
prayerbook which lay beside his pillow.

Mollie's lips trembled; the scene was becoming very trying to her.

"I will swear if monsieur wishes; but my word would be just as sacred to
me as an oath," she said gently.

The man smiled up at her.

"That is enough--I am satisfied," he said, "and Mr. Ashley here already
knows that I trust you implicitly, as I would my own daughter had she
lived. Now, my child, let me add that you have been a great comfort to
me; do not forget in the days to come that you made the last few months
of a lonely, almost heart-broken man, much the brighter by your sweet
presence, and the highest tribute I can show you is to trust you with my
one earthly treasure--my Lucille. Now, I will not keep you,
mademoiselle, adieu, and may the good God forever bless you and yours."

Mollie arose. She felt that she could scarcely have borne another word;
her throat was almost convulsed, her eyes heavy with unshed tears, and
yet she must not weep before him.

She could not speak, but she bent down and left a light caress upon the
man's forehead, then swiftly but noiselessly passed from the room.

At the door she turned for one last look at her friend, to find his eyes
fastened upon her, and in them a light of peace and gladness that she
had never seen in them before. The memory of it never left her. That
night Monsieur Lamonti passed away, and all Washington was grieved and
shocked to read of it the following day.




CHAPTER XI.

THE SOCIAL WORLD SURPRISED.


A few days later another ripple of excitement was created among the
elite of the nation's capital when the contents of Monsieur Lamonti's
will were made known, and it was learned that a young and beautiful
woman had been made the guardian of the distinguished gentleman's
granddaughter and the executrix of the important testament. The document
was simple and concise, but betrayed careful thought, and the fact that
the testator knew exactly what he was about, for there was not a flaw in
it that could possibly have been contested, had any one been disposed to
do so.

It provided that all real estate, horses, carriages, plate, books,
pictures, and choice bric-a-brac, together with certain stocks and bonds
therein named, were to become the sole property of his beloved
granddaughter, Lucille Gillette, to be held in trust for her, without
bonds, until she arrived at the age of twenty-one or married, by
Mademoiselle Marie Norton Heatherford, for whom the testator entertained
the most profound esteem, and in whom he placed the utmost confidence,
and who was hereby authorized and entreated to carry out his
instructions to the letter, to wit: that she would legally adopt said
Lucille Gillette as her own child, allowing her to retain her present
name, and rear and educate her as tenderly and carefully as if she were
indeed her own flesh and blood. Then there followed several minor
bequests and requests, supplemented by something that was to make a
radical change in Mollie's future.

In return for assuming said responsibilities, said Mademoiselle
Heatherford would please accept the testator's deepest gratitude,
together with, as a slight testimonial of the same, the residue of all
that he possessed.

The will further provided that Mademoiselle Heatherford was to exercise
perfect freedom in the choice of a place of residence; she was at
liberty to occupy the present home of the youthful heiress, retaining
the same number of servants, horses, and carriages, or dispose of the
property and reside elsewhere, as she chose; the only stipulation being
that she should always live in a style befitting the fortune and
position of the testator's grandchild, all expenses to be paid out of
the income of said grandchild, the bequest of Mademoiselle Heatherford
being intended for her own private use and disposal.

She was advised to retain Monsieur Lamonti's present lawyer, as the
testator regarded him a trustworthy and competent attorney; but she was
not bound in any way to do so, if circumstances or her judgment should
at any time dictate otherwise.

Of course, Mollie had expected something of this kind, in the event of
Monsieur Lamonti's demise, for she had agreed to accept the charge of
Lucille; but she was not prepared for, and was somewhat appalled by,
the magnitude of the fortune which she would be required to manage in
the future, and the absolute freedom from conditions and restrictions in
which she found herself placed. Regarding the bequest to herself, she
did not at first give much thought to it. Monsieur Lamonti, when talking
the matter over with her, had assured her that she would receive ample
remuneration, and she had inferred that she would, perhaps, be paid a
salary--possibly somewhat increased--the same as she had been getting
from him monthly for her services as private secretary.

His stating her remuneration in the blind way "as the residue of his
property" she imagined might have been so expressed to save her feelings
and prevent the curious public from knowing the amount she was to be
paid for her services.

But a great surprise was in store for her. She was, of course obliged to
consult with Monsieur Lamonti's lawyer, Mr. Ashley, in order to become
familiar with all the details regarding her duties in connection with
the property which she was to administer, and then she found that "the
little Lucille" was a veritable little princess--that she was heiress to
a most magnificent fortune.

"Oh, Mr. Ashley! I never can manage it. I am utterly incompetent!" she
exclaimed in deep distress, when she began to comprehend something of
the condition of affairs. The lawyer smiled.

"Of course, you are not expected to act alone; you must have help; your
friend had no intention of having you harassed with pecuniary burdens.
He left everything in excellent condition, and I assure you there will
be no complications. I have everything in a nutshell, so to speak,
though I confess it is a good big nut, and I am sure, from what Mr.
Lamonti has told me regarding your business-capacity, that you will
readily understand everything when I place my statements before you.
But, Miss Heatherford, let us now talk about your own fortune. I shall
want to know just what disposition to make of it."

"Fortune!" repeated Mollie, astonished. "I imagine you magnify Monsieur
Lamonti's bequest to me; you dignify it by too high-sounding a name."

"He has left you exactly one-fourth of all that he possessed, Miss
Heatherford," Mr. Ashley quietly returned.

"One-fourth!"

At first the words did not seem to mean much to Mollie. Then, as her
active mind began to grasp the situation, she started violently,
flushed, then paled.

"Mr. Ashley! you do not mean that! I--it cannot be possible!" she gasped
in breathless astonishment. "Why! that would be----"

"Yes, exactly; since you already know what Lucille's fortune amounts to,
it is comparatively an easy matter to compute your own," smilingly
returned her companion, and thoroughly enjoying the surprise of the
beautiful girl, for whom, although he had only recently made her
acquaintance, he was rapidly acquiring a great admiration and respect.

"But I never dreamed of anything like this!" Mollie panted, for she was
actually quivering with excitement. "Oh! It does not seem right. I have
done nothing to deserve so much. I cannot accept it."

"But, my dear Miss Heatherford, you have no alternative," Mr. Ashley
quietly observed. "Monsieur Lamonti has decreed what shall be done with
his property, and you gave him your solemn promise, in my presence, that
you would attend to having his wishes carried out to the letter."

"Ah! that was why he sent for me the night he--went away; that was why
he was so particular, so explicit; that is why he tried to make me
'swear' that I would do as he wished," said Mollie, still looking much
disturbed. "Did you know at that time why he was so insistent?"

"Yes. I had been with him a portion of every day during his illness,
helping him draw up the will," the gentleman replied. "You did not
'swear,' Miss Heatherford, but you told him that your word would be just
as sacred to you as an oath."

"Yes, I did; but I did not once suspect that he would put me to such a
test; and, truly, I feel as if I have no moral right to such an amount,
independent of all my expenses, as the will states. Why! it will make
me, also, a rich woman!" Mollie concluded, with a look of real trouble
in her eyes.

"Yes, it is certainly a very handsome plum, my dear young lady," Mr.
Ashley assented, with a satisfied nod of his head; "while as for the
right of the matter, allow me to say I consider that you have every
right to it. In the first place, you are wronging no one living by
accepting it, for little Miss Lucille Gillette will have more money
than she will ever know what to do with. I will also say that I think
you would wrong your late friend, Monsieur Lamonti, by rejecting the
provision he has made for you, for he gave me some of his reasons for
wishing to settle this amount upon you. For one thing, you saved the
life of his granddaughter, did you not?"

"I--suppose I did," Mollie admitted rather reluctantly, then added: "But
any one else would have done the same thing under the same
circumstances."

"That may be very true; at the same time, I cannot see that such a view
of the case detracts in the least from the heroism of your act, or
lessens one whit the obligation which Monsieur Lamonti would naturally
feel," the lawyer argued. "Then I understand that you were in his employ
for some time, and not only served him most faithfully, winning his
highest esteem and entire confidence, but----"

"Well, but he paid me generously," Mollie hastily interposed, and
feeling decidedly uncomfortable to have her services so overestimated.

"Pardon me, Miss Heatherford," Mr. Ashley laughingly retorted, "but I
can't have my argument spoiled in that way. I was about to say that you
also saved your friend a great loss, not only of money, but of valuables
which no money could replace. Am I right?"

"Yes," faltered Mollie. Then she laughed out rather nervously, and
continued: "I perceive, Mr. Ashley, that you are determined to corner
me, and I think it might be well for me to withdraw from the argument."

"Then it will have to be a one-sided one for a while longer, as I
perceive you are not yet quite reconciled," her companion returned, with
a smile. Then he observed very gravely: "There are some things which
money can never repay, Miss Heatherford, and I am sure that Monsieur
Lamonti felt that when he was making his will. Leaving all that had
occurred, for which he felt there was no adequate return, out of the
question, the fact that you were willing to assume the care of his
little one relieved his heart of an incalculable burden."

"But I love Lucille; she is a dear child, and it will be a pleasure to
me to care for her," broke in Mollie earnestly.

"You are condemning yourself, my young friend," said the lawyer, with
twinkling eyes, "for don't you see that money is no recompense for such
an interest in any one; then you have pledged yourself to be a mother to
her, according to your highest conception of the word; you are to watch
and guard her development; you are to see that she is properly educated
for the position she will occupy by and by; you have sacredly promised
to do everything in your power to make her a true and noble woman, and
thus you are accountable in a great measure for her future. If I might
be allowed to judge--and I have dear children of my own--I should say
that no pecuniary emolument could ever balance such responsibilities.
Now, let me advise you not to feel burdened by the bequest of your good
friend, but accept it in the same spirit in which it was bestowed; take
up your new duties cheerfully, and try to be just as happy as possible
in your future sphere--a sphere which, if I am not mistaken, you are
eminently fitted to grace. Don't you think that such a course would
better please Monsieur Lamonti, if he could speak, than to reject, from
an oversensitiveness, what I know he must have regarded as a small
return for what he owed you in the past and all that he has asked of you
for the future?"

Mollie was silent for a few minutes, while she gravely considered what
he had said, and tried to realize how she herself would have felt if the
positions had been reversed. At length she looked up with clear eyes and
her own sunny smile.

"You are right, Mr. Ashley," she said, "you have made me see things in a
different light, and yet I think it will take me some time to get over
the feeling, in view of all the wealth that has come upon me, like an
avalanche, to manage, that I have an embarrassment of riches."

"Do not be troubled," the gentleman kindly returned, "for if affairs are
managed in the future as they have been in the past--I mean according to
Monsieur Lamonti's system--you will find that everything will move along
very smoothly."

"You are surely very comforting," Mollie observed, her heart beginning
to grow light once more. "Of course, you must be my counselor, and I
trust you will not mind if I come to you with all my troubles, as
freely as if I were your own daughter, at least until I become
accustomed to my new duties."

And the gentleman said he should be very happy to have her honor him
with her confidence to such an extent.

In spite of the blind way in which Monsieur Lamonti had worded his
bequest to Mollie, it became noised abroad that the future guardian of
the youthful heiress had herself been very handsomely dowered, and
immediately all Washington became intensely interested in her. The
romantic incidents connected with the saving of the child's life and the
capturing of the midnight burglar--for that, also, had been whispered
about--the beauty and refinement of Miss Heatherford, whom numberless
people now began to remember as a previous New York belle, became, for
the time, the talk of society, and much interest and curiosity were
manifested regarding her plans for the future.

Would she remain in Washington and maintain the fine establishment of
the late millionaire, or would she retire to some place where she would
not be so closely watched during the minority and educating of her young
charge? Would she enter society again, after a proper season of
seclusion out of respect to Monsieur Lamonti, entertain and be
entertained, and finally be won by some aspiring young man of the world?

Of course, Mollie's early life and training had well fitted her to
preside in the palatial home of Lucille, and to shine among the most
distinguished people of Washington, or, indeed, of any city; and,
although she did not give much thought to society just now, there was
much to induce her to remain where she was.

She believed that her friend would prefer her to do so, at least for the
present, and preserve his home just as he had left it, that Lucille
might not too soon forget him; while, as she thought the matter over in
all its bearings, it seemed almost like sacrilege to her to displace the
beautiful furnishings and many treasures of art which had been so
carefully purchased and arranged under his supervision; the servants
were all well trained and trustworthy, and it would have entailed an
infinite amount of perplexity and labor to make any change, and even
though she felt that the responsibility of keeping up such an extensive
establishment would be very great, she finally decided it was the right
thing for her to do. Moreover, and it was the greatest inducement of
all, Cliff was to remain indefinitely in Washington, and she felt that
she could not be separated from him.

So her modest little home, in the humble street where they had lived for
nearly two years, was broken up. Mr. Heatherford was removed to the
pleasantest suite of rooms in the Lamonti residence, and the faithful
Eliza was retained to act solely as his nurse and attendant.

"Poor, dear papa!" Mollie sighed as she bent fondly over him, after he
was comfortably settled in a sunny south window of his luxurious
apartment, "if you could only realize the good fortune that has come to
us, after our battle with poverty, I should be perfectly happy."

When Faxon first learned of the great change that had come into
Mollie's life so unexpectedly he looked anything but pleased.

"So, dear, you now belong to another sphere," he observed, with a
quickly repressed sigh, "or, perhaps, I should have said you have been
restored to your proper sphere."

"Cliff," said Mollie reprovingly, but with a light on her face which
expressed far more than her words, "I belong alone to you--your sphere
will always be mine, unless--oh, you grand, aspiring fellow!--I am
unable to keep up with you mentally as you climb the ladder of fame."

The young man's arms closed around her in a fond embrace, but a sudden
contraction in his throat would not admit of his speaking for the
moment. This little revelation of her great and absorbing love for him
moved him deeply. Mollie observed it, and, flashing a sly, mischievous
glance into his face, she demurely remarked:

"I'm very sorry, Cliff, if you are going to feel burdened to take me
with the appendage that has been thrust upon me. Of course, you know I
would rather have you than the fortune--love in the proverbial cottage
with you than the whole world without you--but since I cannot get rid of
the fortune, I don't see but that you will have to take me just as I am,
be it for 'better or worse.'"

"Mollie! Mollie!" murmured Faxon, in a voice that almost made her
weep--it was so intense from the emotion which nearly mastered
him--"what a rare, sweet woman you are!"

He was silent for a moment, and then he resumed with more self-control.

"I dared to love you when you were 'Miss Heatherford the heiress,' but I
should not have presumed to try to win you while you were rich and I was
poor. I have been so glad and proud to have won you while we were on the
same plane socially, and to feel that we love each other for just what
we are. I have exulted in the thought that it would be my privilege to
work for you, and, perchance, restore you to the position you once
occupied; but since I am to be denied that I can only bend all my
energies toward making my name one that you will be proud to bear by and
by."

"I am already proud of it, dear," said Mollie, with beaming eyes, "but I
shall be even more so when it becomes my own."

Clifford's answer to this loving tribute need not be recorded, but,
judging from the sweet laugh which rippled over Mollie's lips, it was
entirely satisfactory.




CHAPTER XII.

MR. HEATHERFORD'S RECOVERY.


Immediately after Mr. Heatherford's removal to the Lamonti mansion,
Mollie resolved to make one more desperate effort for his recovery and
to spare no expense to put him under the most noted specialists for
diseases of the brain that could be secured. After making diligent
inquiries, she decided to send for Doctor ----, of New York, to come to
Washington and diagnose her father's case. The great man came, but,
after a careful and protracted examination, pronounced the fatal
verdict, which she so dreaded to hear.

"Miss Heatherford, it pains me deeply to have to tell you that there is
not the slightest ray of hope, as far as I can see," he said, and then
lapsed into a learned description of the patient's condition, describing
the state of his brain, the probable progress of the disease, and its
inevitable termination, while Mollie felt as if she would herself become
distracted before he concluded his terrible picture.

"Oh!" she cried at last, "then he must live on like this indefinitely,
growing gradually more and more helpless! He is never to know anything
more of life, never even give me, his only child, one fond word or look
of recognition! How can I bear it?"

"My dear young lady, it is hard, I know," said the physician kindly,
and deeply touched by the tearless grief, "and were it in my power to
give you the least encouragement, I should be more than glad to do so. I
have given you my opinion of the case as it appears to me," he went on
after a moment of deep thought, "but if it would comfort you any to make
one more trial, I will suggest that a noted Paris specialist, who is now
in this country, be called to examine Mr. Heatherford. There is no
higher authority in the world that I know of."

Mollie grasped eagerly at this straw, and the highest authority in the
world, the great Paris doctor, was sent for at once. He came and went;
but he left behind him only bitter disappointment and a sentence of
doom.

Poor Mollie, who had hoped against hope, was utterly prostrated for a
time in view of this ultimatum. She shut herself into her room to meet
this terrible blow and fight her battle out where no eye could witness
her anguish.

The fate to which her father had been doomed by the verdict of the
doctors seemed absolutely unbearable, and she cried aloud in her anguish
that she would not submit to it.

She was nearly worn out with this conflict by luncheon-time, two hours
and more after the departure of the Paris authority, and was only able
to drink a cup of tea when her maid brought a temptingly arranged tray
to her; but she felt that she could not live through the afternoon, left
alone with her own thoughts, and finally, ringing for Nannette, she
ordered her to make Lucille ready for a drive, and half an hour later
found them rolling out toward the Washington monument. They drove for
nearly two hours, and then Mollie ordered the coachman to turn toward
home.

As the carriage was passing through Fourteenth Street something caught
Mollie's eye--something which made her sit suddenly erect, while a look
of eager interest swept over her pale, lovely face. The object which had
attracted her attention was a very modest sign hanging in a window.

It read thus: "John L. Freeman, Christian Science Healer," and into the
girl's mind flashed the thought, accompanied by a wild hope: "Perhaps
that man can help my father--I have heard that Christian Scientists do
wonderful things."

Almost before she was aware of what she was doing, she had ordered the
driver to stop, when, taking Lucille by the hand, she alighted, mounted
the steps, and rang the bell of the house where Mr. Freeman resided.

Then, as the tinkle of the bell came to her ears, she suddenly began to
feel ashamed of her errand, for she had always been both skeptical and
intolerant of all such "metaphysical nonsense," as she had termed it.

She was half-tempted to beat a hasty retreat, and perhaps would have
done so if the door had not been opened at that instant by a sweet,
happy-looking girl, whose winning smile at once won her confidence and
inspired her with fresh hope.

"Can I see Mr. Freeman?" she briefly inquired.

"I think so; come in, please," replied the girl, and, turning, she led
the way into a pleasant room, where a gentleman of perhaps forty years
was sitting.

He arose and greeted Mollie with easy courtesy, his dark eyes searching
her face with a kind but penetrating look, and instantly a strange
feeling of peace fell upon her aching, rebellious heart. She took the
chair he offered her, and then opened her heart to him, telling him all
her trouble and sorrow--of her father's long illness, of the many weary
months of anxious care and hopeless seeking after help from various
sources, and of her last despairing efforts and their result. The
gentleman did not once interrupt her, but sat with downcast eyes and
attentive mien until she concluded, when she tremulously inquired:

"Can you help him--is there any hope, do you think?"

"My dear child, there is every hope," her companion confidently replied.
"God is always a help in time of trouble."

"God!" repeated Mollie, with a bitter inflection. "I have begun to
believe there is no God."

The gentleman bent a pitiful glance upon her.

"I am sure that you will never say that again," he replied after a
moment of silence.

Then he asked her a few questions, after which he remarked that he would
take the case if she desired, and would visit her father later in the
day.

Mollie arose, a peculiar feeling of restfulness and hope having
succeeded her previous weariness and despair; and, opening her purse,
inquired what she should pay for the consultation.

"Nothing for our little talk, Miss Heatherford," said Mr. Freeman, with
a quiet smile; "we are always glad to have people come to us when in
trouble. Scientists, when they take patients, usually treat them by the
week, the sum being uniform, unless frequent visits are required; of
course, you understand that no medicines--no remedies of any kind--are
to be used."

He then mentioned the amount for a week's treatment, and which seemed to
the wondering girl exceedingly paltry; but she paid it, and then went
away with that same strange, sweet peace still pervading her.

A week passed, and while there was no apparent change in Mr.
Heatherford's mental condition, he was not nearly as restless as he had
been, and slept quietly the whole night through, a thing he had not done
for months.

The second week he began to take more nourishment. At the end of a month
his face began to have some color, and Eliza declared that he was
actually gaining flesh, while now and then they found him looking about
the room, vacantly, to be sure, and yet with an air as if a dawning
consciousness was trying to assert itself.

Mollie jealously watched every change, and each time that Mr. Freeman
came she plied him with questions, eagerly seeking to learn something of
the great principle that was governing her dear father's condition.

She read with avidity the books which the gentleman loaned her, and
which taught her much, and gradually a joyous hope--an abiding
confidence, rather--took possession of her, assuring her that her loved
one would ere long be well again.

At the expiration of two months he had once spoken her name, and had
began to try to use his hands to help himself; and finally there came a
day when he actually stood upon his feet, with Eliza's strong arms
around him to support him.

"Bress de Lord! I tole yo' to trust de Lord, honey," the woman
exclaimed, her black face radiant with joy on this happy occasion.

"I know you did, Eliza; and at last I believe I am beginning to
understand what and where God is," Mollie reverently replied, her golden
lashes laden with tears of joy.

Early in May, when the weather began to be oppressive, she closed the
house in Washington and took her family to the beautiful villa--one of
Lucille's many possessions--at Cape May, where they remained all
summer--five delightful, happy months, for the invalid improved with
every day.

Faxon also spent his vacation--the month of August--there, each morning
finding him early at the villa, where he and his betrothed vied with
each other in making the time pass pleasantly for Mr. Heatherford, whose
mind was fast becoming as clear and active as in the vigorous days of
his youth.

He was still somewhat hampered physically, as the obstinate enemy,
paralysis, had not been wholly conquered, although it was rapidly
disappearing; but there was not a happier nor more grateful family in
existence than Mollie's household, all of whom felt as if the dead had
been restored to life.

Faxon returned to Washington the first of September, and a month later
the Lamonti house was once more opened, and the family settled for the
winter.

Mr. Heatherford was now practically well, and "prepared," he said, "to
begin life over again."

Mollie, however, tried to persuade him not to think of business for a
long while yet; there was no need, she asserted, for her income was
ample for their every want. But Mr. Heatherford was eager to test his
recovered powers, particularly as Mr. Freeman encouraged him to do so,
and, having been educated for the bar, he soon made arrangements to go
into business with an established firm, one of the partners proving to
be an old-time friend who knew something of the reputation which Mr.
Heatherford had borne during his more prosperous days; and now the
future began to look very bright to him once more.

As the season advanced and distinguished people began to flock to the
capital, he met many a former acquaintance, and thus it came about that
both Mollie and her father were gradually drawn into society again.

When Mollie began to accept these courtesies and take her place once
more in social life, she insisted that her engagement should be publicly
announced, and so, of course, Clifford was always thereafter included in
all invitations.

He was looking forward to a much brighter prospect in life after the
first of January than he had dared to anticipate for himself thus early
in his career, and it was arranged that his marriage should occur as
soon as he was well settled in his new enterprise; meantime, as he was
becoming quite a favorite in social circles, the young couple gave
themselves up to the enjoyment of the present.

One evening, at a brilliant reception given by a distinguished senator,
Mr. Heatherford and Mollie unexpectedly encountered Mr. and Mrs. Temple
and Philip Wentworth, the family having come to Washington again for the
winter. Mr. Temple had again become interested in politics during the
last year or two, and had been elected a member of the House of
Representatives, and was ambitious for still higher honors.

The meeting between Mr. Heatherford and Mr. Temple was somewhat
startling to both gentlemen, especially so to the latter, since he
believed the former to be still a hopeless paralytic, if, indeed, he
were yet on the earth. They met in the great hall of the mansion where
they were guests.

A slight smile of contempt flitted over Mr. Heatherford's face as he
said: "Ah! Temple; so we meet again!"

"My God! Heatherford!" gasped the man who had so bitterly wronged him
under the guise of friendship; and he was colorless even to his lips.

"Yes; you were not expecting to meet me again--here," returned Mr.
Heatherford.

"It--it is a miracle! Who was your doctor?" panted the false friend,
scarce knowing what he said.

"God," briefly but reverently responded Heatherford. Then, with a
courtly but distant bow, he added: "Excuse me; I am looking for my
daughter."

He passed on, leaving the other still staring blankly after him, and
actually trembling, as if he had suddenly encountered a ghost of the
past--as, indeed, he had.

Later in the evening Mollie found herself standing almost side by side
with Philip Wentworth. She was richly and beautifully clad. Her dress
was a gauzelike material of black, made over a very light-gray satin
that gleamed like silver underneath. The trimmings were all of silver,
and a diamond spray, with a silver aigrette, gleamed in her hair.

The corsage of her robe was cut modestly low, and the full, puffed
sleeves were short, thus revealing her perfect arms and neck, which were
like chiseled marble. It was a strikingly effective costume, and just
suited her, for it threw out the fairness of her faultless complexion to
great advantage.

She gave a slight start as she caught Philip's voice and realized his
proximity, but did not glance at him. She turned slightly away, and was
about to address a lady whom she knew; but before she could do so,
Philip stepped directly in front of her, determined that he would not be
ignored.

"You have told me never to speak to you again--that we are strangers,"
he began in a low tone that was husky with emotion; "cannot you forgive
and forget? I have suffered bitterly for my folly of that night--I have
repented in sackcloth and ashes."

Not a muscle of Mollie's face moved during his speech. She stood and
looked like a statue--beautiful as a young goddess--but cold as snow,
and a feeling of bitter remorse--of utter despair crept over him as he
realized how he had lowered himself in her estimation and lost all
chance of ever winning her.

Since learning of Mr. Lamonti's will and that Mollie had now an
independent fortune, and would once more take an enviable position in
society, he had cursed himself a thousand times for his past folly.
While he was speaking Mollie was wondering how she could escape him
without replying to him and without making herself conspicuous.

There was an awkward pause for a moment after he concluded; then
Mollie's quick ear caught the voice of her hostess, who was just behind
her, remarking:

"No, I have not seen Mr. Wentworth since he first entered the room; but
I am sure he is still here."

Mollie turned gracefully toward the speaker, thus revealing Philip to
her.

"You were inquiring for Mr. Wentworth, Mrs. Blackman," she observed,
with a charming smile. "Behold him just at hand!"

Then, with a bow to the lady, she slipped away, leaving Philip in a
white heat of rage and disappointment over having failed to win even a
glance of recognition from her.

But Mollie escaped Philip only to run almost into the arms of Mrs.
Temple, who also had already arrived at the conclusion that the girl's
acquaintance was worth cultivating again. Mollie Heatherford, with a
handsome fortune in her own right, was an entirely different person
from the poverty-stricken private secretary of a year ago. She extended
her hand with a beaming smile, and greeted her with much of her former
maternal fondness.

Mollie's quiet "good evening, Mrs. Temple," together with the
ceremonious touch of her finger-tips, was something of a facer; but the
shrewd woman of the world was not one to easily relinquish a project,
and she continued in her most cordial tone:

"Really, Mollie, it seems like old times to meet you in society again;
and what a romantic experience you have had! I assure you, no one could
be more delighted than we were when we learned of your good fortune. Are
you back in the Lamonti house again this season?"

"Yes," Mollie briefly replied.

"I understand that it is very elegant--that Mr. Lamonti was exceedingly
refined in his tastes, and made his home a perfect gem," Mrs. Temple
continued, and determined to trap Mollie into asking her to call if it
were possible.

"Yes," the fair girl again composedly replied, "Monsieur Lamonti spared
no expense to make his home attractive, and took great pride and
pleasure in gathering treasures from all parts of the world to beautify
it."

"I have been told that many of the paintings are from the hands of the
best masters," pursued her inquisitor.

"That is true."

"Do you ever entertain as you used to in the old days in New York,
Mollie?"

"We have not as yet; it is quite early in the season, you know," said
Mollie, and barely able to suppress a smile as she saw the drift of
these questions; "but papa and I were talking the matter over recently,
and I think we may have a regular reception evening later on."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Temple eagerly; "then you will be well launched
upon the sea of Washington society, and if at any time you should feel
the need of some one to matronize your affairs, you will know where to
come, dear," she concluded, with her most affable smile.

"Thank you, Mrs. Temple."

"And I wish you would drop in upon us occasionally," the lady went on
appealingly, but flushing slightly over the failure of her scheme. "We
were all very fond of you always, Mollie, and Minnie would be delighted
to see her old friend."

"Yes, Minnie and I were close friends; give my love to the dear child,"
Mollie replied, with more of heartiness than she had yet expressed.
Then, catching sight of Mr. Heatherford, she added: "Excuse me, but I
see papa looking for me. Good-night, Mrs. Temple."

And with a graceful inclination of her bright head she glided away. Mrs.
Temple's face was a study as she watched the slight, perfect figure move
down the room. She had been utterly baffled, and she was filled with
mingled disappointment and mortification.

"Mollie is very shrewd, with all her sweetness," she muttered, with a
frown; "she can hold her own anywhere, and we have all made a grand
mistake."




CHAPTER XIII.

AN ASTONISHING DISCOVERY.


"Waal, squire, I reckon everything is done now to the turn of the key.
I've packed a dozen shirts, and, if I do say it, no Chang Wang could
have put a better shine on 'em than I've given 'em. There's two dozen
pocket-handkerchiefs, as white as snow; collars and cuffs to last a
month, if you're careful; and everything else all in shipshape. Now I'll
have lunch for you in about ten minutes, and that'll give you plenty of
time to catch the train."

So spoke Maria Kimberly, as she stood in the doorway leading from the
kitchen into the dining-room, where Squire Talford was sitting at his
desk filling out some checks to settle his monthly bills. He was on the
point of starting for Washington, whither he was going on business
connected with some patents in which he had recently become interested,
and which would keep him away from home for about six weeks or two
months.

"All right, Maria. I'm about through; but what are you going to do with
yourself while I'm gone?" the man responded, but without looking up from
his employment.

"Oh, I'll take good care o' things, and I'll find enough to do, never
you fear," said the woman, with a peculiar glitter in her eyes. "I
ain't cleaned house yet; I've put it off, waitin' for you to git away,
so's I could have full swing. I'll see that Pat and the boy don't do no
loafin'; and you needn't give yourself a mite of oneasiness--things'll
go on just as straight if you was goin' to be here yourself."

The squire knew this without being told, for Maria was an excellent
manager, an efficient housekeeper, and, barring the fact that she had a
sharp tongue, and was rather more independent than was sometimes quite
agreeable, no one could have suited him better as a superintendent of
affairs, both on the farm and in the house.

She had been in his family for many years, and having been thoroughly
trained by his wife in every department of domestic life and economy,
while being honest and faithful as the day is long in the performance of
every duty, she was entirely competent to assume the management as she
had done upon Mrs. Talford's death, and everything had gone on like
clockwork from that day.

Squire Talford had never manifested any desire to marry again. Maria
asserted that he was "too tight" to be willing to increase his expenses
in any such way; for, although he always wanted the nicest of everything
for himself, he used to grumble over the expense of clothing his wife.

He was very proud of his fine estate--his handsome mansion and broad
acres, and kept them in first-class order; but, while he wanted every
comfort for himself, he had dispensed with some luxuries and style
after Mrs. Talford's demise, was close and mean with his help, and
seemed to think of nothing save accumulating money.

"Though goodness knows what'll ever become of it when he's gone, for he
ain't a kindred soul to leave it to, as far as I know," Mrs. Kimberly
would sometimes remark in a confidential manner to her friends.

"Yes, I reckon I can trust you to keep a sharp eye out while I'm gone,"
the squire returned to Maria's observation, "though I'm not so sure
about the loafing--you're a little inclined to be too soft-hearted with
the boys. I want to find that pile of wood all sawed, split, and housed
when I get back."

Maria sniffed audibly as she glanced through a window at the pile of
wood referred to, and which comprised a good many cords of solid timber,
and she had no idea of pushing "the boys" beyond a certain limit.

"Waal, maybe you will, and maybe you won't," she returned after a
moment, with an independent toss of her head. "It'll depend a good deal
on what kind o' weather we have. I suppose you know," she continued,
with a sudden softening of her face and tone, "that Cliff is in
Washington. I hear he's got a fine position, too. Do you imagine you'll
feel any interest to look him up?"

"Not the slightest, Maria," returned Squire Talford, in a cold tone, and
with a sudden stiffening of his angular figure. "Clifford Faxon is
nothing to me, and I shall not concern myself in the least to learn
anything about his movements."

"Oh!" returned his companion, with a peculiar inflection, while she
screwed her lips into a resentful pucker, "I didn't know but you'd feel
a kind o' curiosity to find out if he's workin' his way along up toward
the top o' the heap in Washington, same's he did at college. You know
you didn't prophecy anything very flatterin' to him when he started out
for himself, but he got there, all the same."

The squire flushed hotly at this reminder.

"I think you'd better hurry up lunch, Maria," was all the reply he
deigned her, and the woman vanished, but chuckling to herself as she
went:

"He pretends he ain't curious, but he is, all the same, and I'd be
willin' to bet my new black silk--which I ain't had on since that day at
Cambridge, I'm goin' to keep it for Cliff's wedding--that he will find
out about the boy," she muttered to herself, while dishing up the
tempting meal which she had prepared for the master of the house.

An hour later Squire Talford was en route for New York, and Maria was
left mistress of the field.

Early next morning she vigorously set about preparations for the
semi-annual house-cleaning, although, to all appearance, the mansion was
immaculate from garret to cellar. Nevertheless, twice every year every
room was religiously upset, cleaned, and renovated.

She invariably began in the attic and went down in the most methodical
manner, just as her mistress had done every year of her married life.
Every box, drawer, and trunk--excepting a couple which the squire never
allowed any one to touch--had to be overhauled, their contents
thoroughly brushed and shaken, for fear of moths, and every nook and
corner swept and scrubbed.

For some reason Maria experienced a greater sense of freedom to-day than
she had ever felt before; doubtless it was because of the squire's
absence, for there would be no fear of disturbing him with the noise
overhead, and having no regular dinner to get, there would be nothing to
interrupt operations.

She always said that the worst was over when she got through with the
attic, and late in the afternoon, when she cast a satisfied glance
around the clean, orderly, sweet-smelling room, every beam and rafter of
which had undergone vigorous treatment, a sigh of content escaped her.

"You can't put your finger on a speck o' dust anywhere," she
soliloquized, "and everything is in shipshape. It's a good job done,
too, and I'm not sorry it's over."

She gathered up her brushes, pail, and mop and turned to leave the
place, when her glance fell upon a small hair trunk which she had
dragged out into the hall at the head of the stairs, and had neglected
to replace in its accustomed corner. It was one of those which the
squire never allowed to be opened and overhauled.

"I s'h'd jest like to know what's in the old thing," Maria remarked as
she sat down her utensils and picked it up in her strong arms. "It
looks's if it had been made in the year one, and it's always locked
tighter'n a drum--goodness! goodness me!"

The latter explosive ejaculations were occasioned by an unlucky slip of
the antiquated receptacle, then a resounding crash upon the floor, when
the hinges snapped, the cover flew off, and a promiscuous assortment of
things were scattered in every direction in the attic, which but a
moment previous had presented such an orderly appearance.

Maria stood for a moment looking ruefully upon the havoc she had made,
her arms akimbo, her temper ruffled in view of the work of gathering up
the débris before her.

"Waal," she at length observed, with a sigh of resignation, "I guess I'm
likely to find out what was in it, after all, though"--with a
contemptuous sniff--"I don't imagine I'm going to be very much
entertained by the operation."

The trunk had been packed full of papers--deeds, letters, bills, etc.,
which had been tied up in separate bundles, but the strings having given
way in the force of the fall, they now lay in confused heaps and
irretrievably mixed, as far as Maria was concerned.

She sat down upon the floor and began to gather them up, restoring them
in as orderly a manner as possible to the trunk. Among other things she
came upon a box which had slid a little to one side of the heap. This,
also, had burst open, and its contents were partially spilled out.
Reaching for it, she drew it toward her, and was attracted by a pungent
odor which clung to it.

It was made from some sweet-smelling, fine-grained wood, and the corners
were ornamented with heavily wrought silver, although the metal was
badly tarnished from having lain so long unused. There were numerous
letters in it, some being addressed in a woman's delicate handwriting
and others in a bold, clear, masculine chirography.

"Miss Belle Abbott," Maria read from one of the envelopes addressed in
the bold hand.

Then she gave a violent start.

"Goodness--gracious! How came this here?" she ejaculated. "Belle Abbott!
Why, that was Cliff's mother's name afore she was married. But I wonder
who W. F. T. Wilton was?" she continued as she closely inspected the
handwriting on another envelope. "I'm sure Mis' Faxon must have writ
these letters, for the writin' looks just like what I've seen in some of
Cliff's books that he told me she gave him. But it beats me to know how
these things ever got into Squire Talford's old trunk, 'less Mis' Faxon
gave them to him to keep for the boy, 'n' if she did he'd oughter had
'em long ago. What's this, I wonder?"

"This" comprised two pieces of parchment attached to each other by a
pin. They were folded long and narrow, like legal documents, and were
also bound about with a narrow blue ribbon.

With firmly compressed lips and a flushed face, Maria sat regarding them
intently, and as if deliberating a point within herself for a few
moments.

"I'm going to know," she said at last, in tones of stern decision, and,
suiting the action to the words, she deliberately removed the ribbon and
pin, unfolded one of the papers, and began to read it with eager
interest.

Every bit of color faded out of her face by the time she reached the
bottom of the sheet, and with staring eyes and bated breath she seized
its mate and proceeded to read that.

"Good land!" she ejaculated at length. "Now I understand some things
that have always puzzled me afore! So this is Belle Atwood's
marriage-bill, and this tells about Cliff's baptism! And Faxon isn't his
last name, either!" she went on, with a gasp of excitement. "It is--he
is--why, good Lord!--now I know why Squire Talford has always hated him
so; though I never did take much stock in that story I heard when I
first came here--that he was in love with her once, and she jilted him
for some one else."

She sat thinking deeply for some time, a look of perplexity on her
plain, honest face.

"There's some things I can't quite see through, after all," she resumed
after a time; "if what I suspect is true--and there ain't much doubt
about it--why on earth did Mis' Faxon ever bind that boy to the squire?
Aha!" a flash of intelligence sweeping over her face, "I begin to
see--it was a trick of his. He is not a man that ever forgives a
wrong--he hated her and the boy's father and the boy himself, because of
what they'd done. He meant to crush 'em all, and so he pretended to
befriend Mis' Faxon--wormed himself into her confidence, so got her to
sign them bond papers, and then, when she died, stole this box, so the
boy could never find out who he really is. I remember now that she sent
for him the night she died. I'll bet he stole these papers at that time.
Oh! he's a tricky one, Squire Talford is! He thought he'd fixed things
so that nobody'd ever find out the truth; but it's a long lane that
hasn't any turn in it, and I'm goin' to prove it to you, you miserly,
gray-headed, hard-hearted old rascal!"

And Mrs. Kimberly emphasized her words by angrily shaking the papers in
her hand at the demolished old trunk, in lieu of the man himself, until
they rattled noisily.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE SQUIRE MEETS MISS HEATHERFORD.


"Humph!" Maria resumed after some minutes, and, arousing herself from
another fit of musing into which she had fallen, "I always thought there
was a skeleton hid in this old hair trunk, and now I've unearthed it.
'Murder will out,' they say, and I guess the Lord thought He'd make me
His instrument to see justice done that boy. He just sent me up here
to-day to smash the thing, and now I s'pose I've got to finish the
business up. I'm going to take charge of these papers and see that Cliff
gets them."

She began to replace them and the letters in the box as she spoke, with
a set face and determined air.

"Of course, I shall tell the squire just how I happened to find 'em,"
she went on. "I ain't one to hide anything. I'll just face him and out
with the whole matter, but they ain't never goin' back into his
possession again if I lose my place for it!" She handled the letters
reverently as she laid them, one by one, into their receptacle, her face
softening involuntarily.

"Of course, these letters will tell Cliff a lot that I may never know
anything about, and what is none o' my business," she mused, but with a
yearning curiosity to know their contents, nevertheless. "I only hope,
if the squire has been trying to cheat him out o' anything that belongs
to him, they'll help to set him right."

Having restored all that she thought belonged there to the box, she set
it one side, then finished packing the trunk, replaced the cover, and,
rising, drew it to the corner where it was accustomed to stand.

Then taking the exhumed "skeleton" under her arm she marched straight
down to her own room, where she locked it safely away in her own trunk
and hid the key.

She was quite upset by the exciting discovery of the afternoon, and for
the first time in many years lay awake until after midnight nervously
conning the matter over in her mind, and trying to decide just what she
ought to do about it. It proved to be a perplexing question, and she
chewed the cud of indecision industriously for the next two weeks, while
she scrubbed and cleaned, took up and put down carpets, washed, ironed,
and hung curtains, and performed the manifold duties that throng upon
the busy matron during house-cleaning time.

Half a dozen times she began a letter to Cliff asking him to come to
Cedar Hill, as she had something important to tell him, but she tore
each one up, her sense of loyalty to the squire making her feel that she
ought to tell him of her discovery first; while, too, she d

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