hout each other six months.
Dolly would take to unbecoming bonnets, and begin to neglect her back
hair, and Grif would take to prussic acid or absinthe."

"Well, I hope he _will_ come back," said Aimee; "but, in the meantime, I
want to ask you to let the affair rest altogether, and not say a word to
Dolly when she comes. It will be the kindest thing you can do. Just let
things go on as they have always done, and ignore every thing new you
may see."

Phil looked up from his easel in sudden surprise; something in her
voice startled him, serenely as he was apt to view all unexpected
intelligence.

"I say," he broke out, "you don't mean that Dolly is very much cut up
about it?"

The fair little oracle hesitated; remembering Dolly's passionate despair
and grief over that "dead letter," she could scarcely trust herself to
speak.

"Yes," she answered at last, feeling it would be best only to commit
herself in Phil's own words, "she is very much cut up."

"Whew!" whistled Phil; "that is worse than I thought!" And the matter
ended in his going back to his picture and painting furiously for a few
minutes, with an almost reflective air.

They did not see anything of Dolly for weeks. She wrote to them now and
then, but she did not pay another visit to Bloomsbury Place. It was
not the old home to her now, and she dreaded seeing it in its new
aspect,--the aspect which was desolate of Grif. Most of her letters
came to Aimee; but she rarely referred to her trouble, rather seeming to
avoid it than otherwise. And the letters themselves were bright enough,
seeming, too. She had plenty to say about Miss MacDowlas and their
visitors and her own duties; indeed, any one but Aimee would have been
puzzled by her courage and apparent good spirits. But Aimee saw below
the surface, and understood, and, understanding, was fonder of her than
ever.

As both Dolly and herself had expected, Mollie did not keep her secret
from the oracle many weeks. It was too much for her to bear alone, and
one night, in a fit of candor and remorse, she poured out everything
from first to last, all her simple and unsophisticated dreams of
grandeur, all her gullibility, all her danger,--everything, indeed, but
the story of her pitiful little fancy for Ralph Gowan. She could not
give that up, even to Aimee, though at the close of her confidence she
was unable to help referring to him.

"And as to Mr. Gowan," she said, "how can I ever speak to him again!
but,