orrible betting-man," says Cecil, "I should put all my
money upon Marcia. I do not think Mr. Amherst cared for Philip.
However, we shall see. And"--in a yet lower tone--"I hope he has not
altogether forgotten Molly."

"I hope not indeed. But he was a strange old man. To forget Miss
Massereene----" Here he breathes a profound sigh.

"Don't sigh, Plantagenet: think of Miss O'Rourke," says Cecil, unkindly,
leaving him.

* * * * *

One by one, and without so much as an ordinary "How d'ye do?" they have
all slipped into the dining-room. The men have assumed a morose air,
which they fondly believe to be indicative of melancholy; the women,
being by nature more hypocritical, present a more natural and suitable
appearance. All are seated in sombre garments and dead silence.

Marcia, in crape and silk of elaborate design, is looking calm but full
of decorous grief. Philip--who has grown almost emaciated during these
past months--is the only one who wears successfully an impression of
the most stolid indifference. He is leaning against one of the windows,
gazing out upon the rich lands and wooded fields which so soon will be
either all his or nothing to him. After the first swift glance of
recognition he has taken no notice of Molly, nor she of him. A
shuddering aversion fills her toward him, a distaste bordering on
horror. His very pallor, the ill-disguised misery of his whole
appearance,--which he seeks but vainly to conceal under a cold and
sneering exterior,--only adds to her dislike.

A sickening remembrance of their last meeting in the wood at Brooklyn
makes her turn away from him with palpable meaning on his entrance,
adding thereby one pang the more to the bitterness of his regret. The
meeting is to her a trial,--to him an agony harder to endure than he
had even imagined.

Feeling strangely out of place and nervous, and saddened by memories of
happy days spent in this very room so short a time ago, Molly has taken
a seat a little apart from the rest, and sits with loosely-folded hands
upon her knees, her head bent slightly downward.

Cecil, seeing the dejection of her attitude, leaves her own place, and,
drawing a chair close to hers, takes one of her hands softly between
her own.

Then the door opens, and Mr. Buscarlet, with a sufficiently subdued
though rather triumphant and consequential air, enters.

He bows obsequiously to Marcia, who barely returns the salute.
De