f a beloved but angry child
fretting at the delay of some coveted toy.

"I don't believe he is coming _at all_," she says, again, with increased
emphasis, having received no answer to her first assertion, Letitia
being absorbed in a devout prayer that her words may come true, while
John is disgracefully drowsy. "Oh, fancy the time I have wasted over my
appearance, and all for nothing! I won't be able to get up the enthusiasm
a second time: I feel that. How I hate young men,--young men in the army
especially! They are so selfish and so good-for-nothing, with no thought
for any one on earth but Number One. Give me a respectable, middle-aged
squire, with no aspirations beyond South-downs and Early York."

"Poor Molly Bawn!" says John, rousing himself to meet the exigencies of
the moment. "'I deeply sympathize.' And just when you are looking so
nice, too: isn't she, Letty? I vow and protest, that young man deserves
nothing less than extinction."

"I wish I had the extinguishing of him," says Molly, viciously. Then,
laughing a little, and clasping her hands loosely behind her back, she
walks to a mirror, the better to admire the long white trailing robe,
the faultless face, the red rose dying on her breast. "And just when I
had taken such pains with my hair!" she says, making a faint grimace at
her own vanity. "John, as there is no one else to admire me, do say
(whether you think it or not) I am the prettiest person you ever saw."

"I wouldn't even hesitate over such a simple lie as that," says John;
"only--Letty is in the room: consider her feelings."

"A quarter to nine. I really think he can't be coming now," breaks in
Letitia, hopefully.

"Coming or not coming, I shan't remain in for him an instant longer this
delicious night," says Molly, walking toward the open window, under
which runs a balcony, and gazing out into the still, calm moonlight. "He
is probably not aware of my existence; so that even if he does come he
will not take my absence in bad part; and if he does, so much the
better. Even in such a poor revenge there is a sweetness."

"Molly," apprehensively, "the dew is falling."

"I hope so," answers Molly, with a smile, stepping out into the cool,
refreshing dark.

Down the wooden steps, along the gravel path, into the land of dreaming
flowers she goes. Pale moonbeams light her way as, with her gown
uplifted, she wanders from bed to bed, and with a dainty greediness
drinks in the honeyed breathings ro