t is my impression that if
he went to her at the eleventh hour, when she might seem to us to be at
the very last, he would bring her back to life. It is Grif she is dying
for, and only Grif can save her."

"And what do you want me to do?" anxiously.

"To watch for him constantly, as I said. Don't _you_ think, Mollie,
that he might come back, if it were only into the street to look at the
house, in a restless sort of remembrance of the time when they used to
be so happy?"

"It would not be unlike him," answered Mollie, slowly. "He was very fond
of Dolly. Oh, he was very fond of her!"

"Fond of her! He loved her better than his life, and does still,
wherever he may be. Something tells me he will come, and that is why
I want you to watch. Watch at the window as constantly as you can, but
more particularly at dusk; and if you should see him, Mollie, don't wait
a second. Run out to him, and _make_ him listen to you. Ah, poor fellow,
he will listen eagerly and penitently enough, if you only say to him
that Dolly is dying."

"Very well," said Mollie, "I will remember." And thus the wise one took
her departure.

It was twilight in Bloomsbury Place, and Mollie crouched before the
parlor window, resting her chin upon her hands, and looking out, pretty
much as Aimee had looked out on that winter evening months ago, when Mr.
Gerald Chandos had first presented himself to her mind as an individual
to be dreaded.

Three days had passed since the wise one left London,--three miserable,
dragging days they had seemed to Mollie, despite their summer warmth and
sunshine. Real anxiety and sorrow were new experiences in Vagabondia;
little trials they had felt, and often enough small unpleasantnesses,
privations, and disappointments; but death and grief were new. And they
were just beginning to realize broadly the blow which had fallen upon
them; hard as it was to believe at first, they were beginning slowly to
comprehend the sad meaning of the lesson they were learning now for the
first time. What each had felt a fear of in secret was coming to pass at
last, and there was no help against it.

Phil went about his work looking as none of them had ever seen him look
before. Mrs. Phil's tears fell thick and fast. Not understanding
the mystery, she could blame nobody but Grif, and Grif she could not
forgive. To Mollie the house seemed like a grave. She could think of
nothing but Dolly,--Dolly, white and worn and altered, lying upon her