in? I
think I shall have to be very good to you to make up for it."

"I think so too," says Luttrell, gravely. "My ignominious breakdown was
nothing in comparison with a harsh word thrown at me by you. I feel a
deep sense of injury upon me."

"It all comes of our being in what the papers call 'poor circumstances,'"
says Molly, lightly. "Now, when I marry and you come to see me, I shall
send a carriage and a spirited pair of grays to meet you at the station.
Think of that."

"I won't," says Luttrell; "because I don't believe I would care to see
you at all when--you are married." Here, with a rashness unworthy of
him, he presses, ever so gently, the slender fingers within his own.
Instantly Miss Massereene, with a marked ignoring of the suggestion in
his last speech, returns to her forgotten charge.

"I don't want to inconvenience you," she says, demurely, with downcast
lids, "but when you have quite done with my hand I think I should like
it again. You see it is awkward being without it, as it is the right
one."

"I'm not proud," says Luttrell, modestly. "I will try to make myself
content if you will give me the left one."

At this they both laugh merrily; and, believe me, when two people so
laugh together, there is very little ice left to be broken.

"And are you really glad I have come?" says Luttrell, bending, the
better to see into her pretty face. "It sounds so unlikely."

"When one is starving, even dry bread is acceptable," returns Molly,
with a swift but cruel glance.

"I refuse to understand you. You surely do not mean----"

"I mean this, that you are not to lay too much stress on the fact of my
having said----"

"Well, Luttrell, where are you, old fellow? I suppose you thought you
were quite forgotten. Couldn't come a moment sooner,--what with
Letitia's comments on your general appearance and my own comments on my
tobacco's disappearance. However, here I am at last. Have you been
lonely?"

"Not very," says Mr. Luttrell, _sotto voce_, his eyes fixed on
Molly.

"It is John," whispers that young lady mysteriously. "Won't I catch it
if he finds me out here so late without a shawl? I must _run_.
Good-night,"--she moves away from him quickly, but before many steps
have separated them turns again, and, with her fingers on her lips,
breathes softly, kindly--"until to-morrow." After which she waves him a
last faint adieu and disappears.

CHAPTER III.

"In my lady's chamber."

When John Mas