d going toward the window presses her forehead against one of the
cool panes. So stationed, she is out of sight and hearing.

The door opens, and the men come in by twos. Luttrell makes straight
for Molly, and as an excuse for doing so says out loud:

"Miss Massereene, will you sing us something?"

"I don't sing," returns Molly, in a distinct and audible tone,--audible
enough to make Marcia raise her shoulders and cast an "I told you so"
glance at Cecil Stafford.

Luttrell, bewildered, gazes at Molly.

"But----" he commences, rashly.

"I tell you I don't sing," she says, again, in a lower, more imperative
tone, although even now she repents her of the ill-humor that has
balked her of a revenge so ready to her hand. To sing a French song,
with her divine voice, before Marcia! A triumph indeed!

All night long the conversation between her cousin and Lady Stafford
rankles in her mind. What a foolish freak it was her ever permitting
Marcia to think of her as one altogether without education! Instinct
might have told that her cousin would not scruple about applying such
knowledge to her disadvantage. And yet why is Marcia her enemy? How has
she ever injured her? With what purpose does she seek to make her visit
unpleasant to her?

And to speak contemptuously of her to Lady Stafford, of all people,
whom already she likes well enough to covet her regard in return,--it
is too bad. Not for worlds would she have had her think so poorly of
her.

At all events she will lose no time in explaining, on the morrow; and
with this determination full upon her she retires to rest, with some
small comfort at her heart.

CHAPTER XIII.

"Music hath charms."

"May I come in?" says Molly, next day, knocking softly at Lady
Stafford's door.

"By all means," returns the plaintive voice from within; and Molly,
opening the door, finds Cecil has risen, and is coming forward eagerly
to meet her.

"I knew your voice," says the blonde, gayly. "Come in and sit down, do.
I am _ennuyee_ to the last degree, and will accept it as a
positive charity if you will devote half an hour to my society."

"But you are sure I am not in the way?" asks Molly, hesitating; "you
are not--busy?"

"Busy! Oh, what a stranger I am to you, my dear," exclaims Cecil,
elevating her brows: "it is three long years since last I was busy. I
am sure I wish I were: perhaps it might help me to get through the
time. I have spent the last hour wondering what o