ceived at your hands, how easy it
would be to forgive!" says he, in a low tone.

"Poor hands," says Molly, gazing at her shapely fingers, "how have they
sinned? Am I to understand, then, that I am not forgiven?"

"Yes."

"You are unkind to me."

"Oh, Molly!"

"_Dreadfully_ unkind to me. Can you deny it? Now, tell me what
this crime is that I have committed and you cannot pardon."

"I will not," says the young man, turning a little pale, while the
smile dies out of his eyes and from round his lips. "I dread to put my
injuries into words. Should they anger you, you might with one look
seal my death-warrant."

"Am I so blood-thirsty? How badly you think of me!"

"Do I?" Reading with the wistful sadness of uncertainty her lovely
face. "You know better than that. You know too--do you not?--what it is
I would say,--if I dared. Oh, Molly, what have you done to me, what
witchery have you used, that, after escaping for twenty-seven long
years, I should now fall so hopelessly in----"

"Hush!" says Molly, quickly, and, letting her hand fall lightly on his
forehead, brings it slowly, slowly, over his eyes and down his face,
until at length it rests upon his lips rebukingly. "Not another word.
You have known me but a few days,--but a little short three weeks,--and
you would----"

"Yes, I would," eagerly, devouring with fond kisses the snow-flake that
would stay his words. "Three weeks,--a year,--ten years,--what does it
matter? I think the very first night I saw you here in this garden the
mischief was done. My heart left me. You stole the very best of me; and
will you give nothing in exchange?"

"I will not listen," says Molly, covering her ears with her hands, but
not so closely that she must be deaf. "Do you hear? You are to be
silent."

"Do you forbid me to speak?"

"Yes; I am in a hurry; I cannot listen,--_now_," says this born
coquette, unable to release her slave so soon.

"Some other time,--when you know me better,--you will listen then: is
that what you mean?" Still detaining her with passionate entreaty both
in tone and manner. "Molly, give me one word of hope."

"I don't know what I mean," she says, effecting her escape, and moving
back to the security of the drawing-room window, which stands open. "I
never do know. And I have not got the least bit of memory in the world.
Do you know I came out here to tell you tea was to be brought out for
us under the trees on the lawn; and when I saw you I forgot ev