DEAD AND BURIED.

The twilight was falling without—the last silvery radiance of the dying day streamed through the dirty, broken attic window, and lighted, as with a pale glory, Mollie's drooping head and earnest, saddened face.

Miriam had fallen back upon the pillow, exhausted, panting, laboring for breath.

There was a long pause; then Mollie lifted her bowed head and drew closer to the dying woman.

"Finish your story," she said, softly, sadly.

"It is finished," Miriam answered, in a voice, scarcely above a whisper. "You know the rest. I went to you, as you remember, the day after you landed, and proved to you that I was your aunt—a falsehood, Mollie, which my love and my pride begot.

"Some dim recollection of me and your childhood's days yet lingered in your breast—you believed me. You told me you were going to K——. You gave me money, and promised to write to me. You were so sweet, so gentle, so pitying, so beautiful, that I loved you tenfold more than ever. Your life was one of labor, and drudgery, and danger. If I could only make you a lady, I thought! My half-crazed brain caught at the idea, and held it fast—if I could only make you a lady!

"Like lightning there dawned upon me a plan. The man who had wronged us all so unutterably was rich and powerful—why should I not use him? Surely, it could not be wrong—it would be a just and righteous reparation. He need not know you were my child—with that knowledge I would far sooner have seen you dead than dependent upon him—but let him think you were his very own (Mary Dane's) dead child, and where would be the obligation?

"I could neither sleep nor eat for thinking of this plot of mine. Your image, bright and beautiful in silken robes and sparkling jewels, waited upon by obedient servants, a life of ease and luxury for my darling whom I had deserted—a lady among the ladies of the land—haunted me by night and by day.

"I yielded at last. I went to Carl Walraven, and stood boldly up before him, and faced him until he quailed. Conscience makes cowards of the bravest, they say, and I suppose it was more his guilty conscience than fear of me; but the fear was there. I threatened him with exposure—I threatened to let the world know his black crimes, until he turned white as the dead before me.

"He knew and I knew, in our heart of hearts, that I could do nothing. How could I substantiate a charge of murder done years ago in France?—how prove it? How bring it home to him? My words would be treated as the ravings of a mad-woman, and I would be locked up in a mad-house for my pains.

"But knowing all this, and knowing I knew it, he nevertheless feared me, and promised to do all I wished. He kept his word, as you know. He went to K——, and, seeing you, became as desirous of you as I would have had him. Your bright, girlish beauty, the thought that you were his daughter, did the rest. He brought you home with him, and grew to love you dearly."

"Yes," Mollie said, very sadly, "he loves me dearly. I should abhor and hate the murderer of my father, I suppose, but somehow I can not. Mr. Walraven has been very good to me. And now, mother, tell me why you came on the day of his marriage, and strove to prevent it? You did not really think he was going to marry me?"

"I never thought so," said Miriam. "It was one of my mad freaks—an evil wish to torment him. I have been a nightmare to him ever since my first appearance. I hardly know whether he hates or fears me most. But that is all past and gone. I will never torment him again in this world. Give me more wine, Mollie—my lips are parched."

Miriam moistened her dry mouth and fell back, ghastly and breathing hard. Mollie rose from the bedside with a heavy sign.

"You will not leave me?" the dying woman whispered, in alarm, opening her glassy eyes.

"Only for a moment, mother. Mr. Ingelow is below. I must speak with him."

She glided from the room and went down-stairs.

Hugh Ingelow, leaning against the door-post, smoking a solacing cigar, and watching the new moon rise, started as she appeared. She looked so unlike herself, so like a spirit, that he dropped his cigar and stared aghast.

"Is she dead?" he asked.

"She is dying," Mollie answered. "I came to tell you I will stay to the last—I will not leave her again. You can not, need not wait longer here, Mr. Ingelow."

"I will not leave you," Mr. Ingelow said, resolutely, "if I have to stay a week. Good heavens, Mollie! what do you think I am, to leave you alone and unprotected in this beastly place?"

"I will be safe enough," Mollie said with a wan smile at his vehemence. "I dare say the worst crime these poor people are guilty of is poverty."

"I will not leave you," Hugh Ingelow reiterated. "I will go upstairs and stay in the passage all night if you will find me a chair. I may be needed."

"You are so kind!" raising her eloquent eyes; "but it is too much—"

"Not one whit too much. Don't let us waste words over a trifle. Let us go up."

He ran lightly up the rickety staircase, and Mollie, pausing a moment to tap at Mrs. Slimmens' door, and ask her to share her last vigil, slowly followed, and returned to the solemn chamber of death.

Mrs. Slimmens, worthy woman, saw to Mr. Ingelow's comfort. She found a chair and a little table and a pillow for the young gentleman, and fixed him as agreeably as possible on the landing. The patient artist laid the pillow upon the table and his head thereon, and slept the sleep of the just.

The long night wore on; Miriam lay, white and still, the fluttering breath just there and no more. After midnight she sunk lower and lower with every passing hour. As day-dawn, pale and blank, gleamed dimly across the night, the everlasting day dawned for her. Sinful and suffering, she was at rest.

Only once she had spoken. Just before the last great change came, the dulled, glazed eyes opened and fixed themselves on Mollie.

"My darling—my darling!" she whispered, with a last look of unutterable love.

Then a shiver shook her from head to foot, the death-rattle sounded, the eyeballs rolled upward, and Miriam was dead.

Mrs. Slimmens' wild cry brought Hugh Ingelow into the room. He crossed the room to where Mollie knelt, rigid and cold.

"Mollie!" he whispered, bending tenderly down; "my own dear Mollie!"

She looked up vaguely, and saw who it was.

"She was my mother, Hugh," she said, and slipped heavily backward in his arms, white and still.

Mollie did not faint. She lay a moment in a violent tremor and faintless, her face hidden on his shoulder; then she lifted her face, white as the dead—white as snow.

"She was my mother, Hugh," she repeated—"my own mother."

"Your mother, Mollie? And I thought Carl Walraven—"

"Oh, hush! not that name here. He is nothing to me—less than nothing. I shall never see him again."

"Are you not going home?"

"I have no home," said Mollie, mournfully. "I will stay here until she is buried. After that—'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' You will help me, Mr. Ingelow?" looking piteously up. "I don't know what to do."

"I will help you," he said, tenderly, "my poor little forlorn darling; but only on one condition—that you will grant me a favor."

"What?" looking at him wonderingly.

"That you will go and lie down. You need sleep—go with Mrs. Slimmens—eat some breakfast, and try to sleep away the morning. Don't make yourself uneasy about anything—all shall be arranged as well as if you were here. You will do this for me, Mollie?"

"Anything for you, Hugh," Mollie replied, hardly knowing what she said; "but I feel as though I should never sleep again."

Nevertheless, when led away by Mrs. Slimmens, and a cup of warm tea administered, and safely tucked in a clean straw bed, Mollie's heavy eyelids closed in a deep, dreamless sleep. That blessed slumber which seals the eyes of youth, despite every trouble, wrapped her in its comforting arms for many hours.

It was high noon when Mollie awoke, refreshed in body and mind. She rose at once, bathed her face and brushed her curls, and quitted the bedroom.

Mrs. Slimmens, in the little kitchen, was bustling about the midday meal.

"Your dinner is all ready, Miss Dane," that worthy woman said, "and the young gentleman told me not on any account to allow you upstairs again until you'd had it. Sit right down here. I've got some nice broiled chicken and blancmange."

"You've never gone to all this trouble and expense for me, I hope?" remonstrated Mollie.

"La, no; I hadn't the money. The young gentleman had 'em ordered here from the restaurant up-street. Sit right down at once."

"Dear, kind, considerate Hugh!" Mollie thought, as she took her place at the tidy table. "Where is he now, Mrs. Slimmens?"

"Gone for his own dinner, miss, or his breakfast; I don't know which, seein' he's had nothing all day but a cup of tea I gave him this morning. He's been and had the poor creeter upstairs laid out beautiful, and the room fixed up, and the undertaker's man's been here, a-measurin' her for her coffin. She's to be buried to-morrow, you know."

"Yes, I know. Poor Miriam! poor mother!"

Mollie finished her meal and went at once upstairs. The chamber of death looked ghastly enough, draped with white sheets, which hid the smoky, blotched walls; the stove had been removed, the floor scrubbed, the window washed and flung open, and on the table stood two large and beautiful bouquets that scented the little room with sweetest odors of rose and mignonette.

On the bed, snowily draped in a white shroud, lay Miriam, her hands folded across her bosom, a linen cloth covering the dead face. By the bed a watcher sat—a decently dressed woman, who rose with a sort of questioning courtesy upon the entrance of the young lady.

"This is Mrs. Harmen, Miss Dane," said Mrs. Slimmens. "She's the person that fixed the shroud and helped tidy up. She's to take spells with you and me watching until the funeral comes off."

"Very well," said Mollie, quietly. "Perhaps she had better go down with you for the present. I will remain here for the rest of the day."

The two women quitted the apartment, and Mollie was left alone. She removed the cloth and gazed sadly on the rigid face.

"Poor soul!" she thought, bitterly, "hers was a hard, hard life! Oh, Carl Walraven! if you could look upon your work, surely even you would feel remorse."

The entrance of Hugh Ingelow aroused her. She turned to him her pale, sweet face and earnest blue eyes.

"I want to thank you so much, Mr. Ingelow, and I can not. You are very, very, very good."

He took the hand she held out and kissed it.

"One word from you would repay me for ten times as much. May I share your watch for a couple of hours?"

"For as long as you will. I want to tell you the story she told me on her death-bed. You have been so good to me—no brother could have been more—that I can have no secrets from you. Besides, you must understand why it is I will return to Mr. Walraven's no more."

"No more?" he echoed in surprise.

"Never again. I never want to see him again in this world. I will tell you. I know the miserable secret is as safe with you as in my own breast."

If Mollie had loved Hugh Ingelow less dearly and devotedly than she did, it is doubtful if she would have revealed the dark, sad history Miriam had unfolded. But he had her heart, and must have every secret in it; so she sat and told him, simply and sadly, all her father's and mother's wrongs. Mr. Ingelow listened in horrified amaze.

"So now, you see, my friend," she concluded, "that I can never cross Carl Walraven's threshold more."

"Of course not," cried Mr. Ingelow, impetuously. "Good heavens! what a villain that man has been! They ought to hang, draw, and quarter him. The infliction of such a wife as Madame Blanche has been is but righteous retribution. You should expose him, Mollie."

"And myself? No, no, Mr. Ingelow. I leave him in higher hands. The mill of the gods grinds slow, but it grinds sure. His turn will come, be certain of that, sooner or later. All I will do is never to look upon his guilty face again."

"What do you mean to do, Mollie? But I suppose you have no plan formed yet."

He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, looking at her askance, and Mollie sighed wearily.

"Yes, I have a plan. I intend to leave New York as soon as possible after to-morrow."

"Indeed. May I ask—to go where?"

"Mr. Ingelow, I shall join my old company again. They will be glad to have me, I know. I have always kept up a correspondence with a friend I had in the troupe, and she continually, half in jest, wholly in earnest, urges my return. They are down in Kentucky now. I will write to the manager. He will forward me the funds to join them, I know. While I wait for his answer and remittance, good Mrs. Slimmens will provide me a home."

She ceased, and rising up, walked over to the window.

Now was Mr. Ingelow's time, surely, if he cared for Mollie at all; but Mr. Ingelow spoke never a word. He sat in dead silence, looking at the little figure by the window, knowing she was crying quietly, and making no attempt to wipe away those tears by one tender word.

The afternoon wore away. As the twilight fell, Mr. Ingelow took his departure, and Mollie went down to Mrs. Slimmens' for a reviving cup of tea.

"I have everything arranged for the funeral, Mollie," Mr. Ingelow said at parting. "I will be here by nine o'clock to-morrow. Don't give yourself the least anxiety about the matter, Mollie."

The young man departed. Mollie had her toast, and returned to the death-room. She remained there until past midnight with Mrs. Harmen; then, at Mrs. Slimmens' earnest request, she retired, and that good woman took her place. At ten next day, the humble funeral cortège started. Mr. Ingelow sat in the carriage with Mollie, but they spoke very little during the melancholy drive.

It was a dismal day, with ceaseless rain, and sighing wind, and leaden sky. Mollie cowered in a corner of the carriage, her pale face gleaming like a star above her black wraps, the bright blue eyes unutterably mournful.

And Hugh Ingelow watched her with an indescribable expression in his fathomless eyes, and made no effort to console her.

The sods rattled on the coffin-lid, the grave was filled up, and everybody was hurrying away out of the rain.

It was all over, like some dismal dream, and Mollie, shivering under her shawl, took one last backward look at the grave of her mother, and was hurried back to the carriage by Hugh Ingelow.

But she was so deathly white and cold, and she trembled with such nervous shivering, that the young man drew her to him in real alarm.

"You are going to be ill, Mollie," he said. "You are ill."

"Am I?" said Mollie, helplessly. "I don't know. I hope not. I want to go away so much."

"So much? To leave me, Mollie?"

Mollie lifted her heavy eyes, filled with unutterable reproach.

"You don't care," she said. "It is nothing to you. And it should be nothing," suddenly remembering herself and sitting up. "Please let me go, Mr. Ingelow. We must part, and it is better so."

Mr. Ingelow released her without a word. Mollie sat up, drew a letter from her pocket, and handed it to him. He saw it was addressed to Carl Walraven, and looked at her inquiringly.

"I wish you to read it," she said.

It was unsealed. He opened it at once, and read:

Mr. Ingelow looked up.

"Will it do?" she asked.

"Yes. Am I to deliver it?"

"If you will add that kindness to your others. I don't think he will seek me out. He knows better than that."

Her head dropped against the side of the carriage. The face usually so sparkling looked very, very pale, and worn, and sad. The young artist took her hand and held it a moment at parting.

"You intend to write to your old manager to-morrow, Mollie?"

"Yes."

"Don't do it. Postpone it another day. I am coming here to-morrow, and I have a different plan in my head that I think will suit better. Wait until to-morrow, Mollie, and trust me."

His eyes flashed with an electric fire that thrilled the girl through.

What did he mean? But Mr. Ingelow had sprung into the carriage again and was gone.

CRICKET'S HUSBAND.

Mr. Carl Walraven sat alone in his private room in a Broadway hotel, smoking an after-breakfast cigar, and looking lazily at the stream of people hurrying up and down. It was the morning following Miriam's funeral, of which he, of course, had heard nothing. He had left the city after his interview with his wife, and had but just returned. He had not gone home, but he had notified Mr. Sardonyx of his presence in town, and signified that that gentleman was to wait upon him immediately.

Pending his arrival, Mr. Walraven sat and smoked, and stared at the passers-by, and wondered, with an internal chuckle, how Mme. Blanche felt by this time, and whether Mollie was lonely or not, shut up in the deserted mansion.

"If she'll consent, I'll take her to Europe," mused Carl Walraven. "It will be delightful to go over the old places with so fresh a companion as my sparkling little Cricket. But I'm not sure that she'll go—she's a great deal to fond of young Ingelow. Well, he's a fine fellow, and I've no objection."

Mr. Walraven's reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Sardonyx. The lawyer bowed; his employer nodded carelessly.

"How do, Sardonyx? Find a chair. I've got back, you see. And now, how's things progressing?"

"Favorably, Mr. Walraven. All goes well."

"And madame has gone packing, I hope?"

"Mrs. Walraven left for Yonkers yesterday. I accompanied her and saw her safely to her new home."

"How does she take it?"

"In sullen silence. She doesn't deign to speak to me; but with her cousin it is quite another matter. He had the hardihood to call upon her in my presence, and you should have seen her. By Jove, sir! she flew out at him like a tigress. Doctor Guy departed without standing on the order of his going, and hasn't had the courage to try it on since."

Mr. Walraven smiled grimly.

"That's as it should be. Apart, they are harmless; together, they are the devil's own. And now, how's the mother, and how's Mollie?"

"Your mother is as well as usual, I believe. As to Miss Dane," lifting his eyebrows in surprise, "have you not heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Why, that she has gone."

"Gone!" cried Carl Walraven, "gone again? What the foul fiend does the girl mean? Has she been carried off a third time?"

"Oh, dear, no! nothing of that sort. Miss Dane and Mr. Ingelow departed together late in the afternoon of the same day you left, and neither has since been heard of."

Mr. Sardonyx made this extraordinary statement with a queer smile just hovering about the corners of his legal mouth. His employer looked at him sternly.

"See here, Sardonyx," he said; "none of your insinuations. Miss Dane is my ward, remember. You are her jilted lover, I remember. Therefore, I can make allowances. But no insinuations. If Miss Dane and Mr. Ingelow left together, you know as well as I do there was no impropriety in their doing so."

"Did I say there was, Mr. Walraven? I mean to insinuate nothing. I barely state facts, told me by your servants."

"Did Mollie leave no word where she was going?"

"There was no need; they knew. This was the way of it: a ragged urchin came for her in hot haste, told her Miriam was dying, and desired her presence at once, to reveal some secret of vital importance. Miss Dane departed at once. Mr. Ingelow chanced to be at the house, and he accompanied her. Neither of them has returned."

The face of Carl Walraven turned slowly to a dead, sickly white as he heard the lawyer's words. He rose slowly and walked to one of the opposite windows, keeping his back turned to Sardonyx.

"Has there been no letter, no message of any sort since?" he inquired, huskily, after a pause.

"None. No one in your household knows even where this Miriam resides. As for Mr. Ingelow, I called twice at the studio since, but each time to find it locked."

There was a tap at the door.

"Come in," said the lawyer.

And enter a waiter, with a card for Mr. Walraven. That gentleman took it with a start.

"Speak of the—Hugh Ingelow!" he muttered. "Sardonyx, I wish to see Ingelow in private. I'll drop into your office in the course of the day."

Mr. Sardonyx bowed and took his hat and his departure at once.

Mr. Ingelow and he crossed each other on the threshold.

The young artist entered, his handsome face set, and grave, and stern.

Mr. Walraven saw that cold, fixed face with a sinking heart.

"Good-morning, Ingelow," he said, trying to nod and speak indifferently. "Take a seat and tell me the news. I've been out of town, you know."

"I know," Mr. Ingelow said, availing himself of the proffered chair only to lean lightly against it. "Thanks. No, I prefer to stand. My business will detain you but a few minutes. I come from Miss Dane."

He spoke with cold sternness. He could not forget the horrible fact that the man before him was a profligate and a murderer.

"Ah!" Carl Walraven said, with ashen lips. "She is well, I trust?"

"She is well. She desired me to give you this."

He held out the note. The hands of the millionaire shook as he tried to open it.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"She is with friends. Read that note; it explains all."

"Have you read it?" Carl Walraven asked with sudden, fierce suspicion.

"I have," answered Mr. Ingelow, calmly; "by Miss Dane's express desire."

Mr. Walraven opened the note and read it slowly to the end. His face changed from ashen gray to the livid hue of death. He lifted his eyes to the face of the young artist, and they glowed like the burning eyes of a hunted beast.

"Well?"

It was all he said, and he sent the word hissing hot and fierce from between his set teeth.

"That is all my errand here, Mr. Walraven," the young man said, his cool brown eyes looking the discovered murderer through. "I know all, and I believe all. You have been duped from first to last. Miss Dane is no child of yours, thank God!"

He raised his hand as he uttered the solemn thanksgiving, with a gesture that thrilled the guilty man through.

"Your secret is safe with her and with me," pursued Hugh Ingelow, after a pause. "You may live to the end of your life unmolested of man, for us, but you must never look upon Mollie Dane's face more."

Carl Walraven sunk down into a chair and covered his face, with a groan. Hugh Ingelow turned to go.

"Stop!" Mr. Walraven said, hoarsely. "What is to become of her? Are you going to marry her, Hugh Ingelow?"

"I decline answering that question, Mr. Walraven," the artist said, haughtily. "Miss Dane will be cared for—believe that. I wish you good-morning."

Mr. Ingelow was very pale when he emerged into thronged Broadway, but there was no indecision in his movements. He hailed a hack passing, sprung in, and was driven rapidly to the east side—to the humble abode of Mrs. Slimmens.

Mollie came forth to meet him, worn and sad, and with traces of tears, but with a bright, glad light in her starry eyes at sight of him—the light of sweet young love.

"I have seen him, Mollie," he said. "I gave him your letter. You would hardly have known him, he looked so utterly aghast and confounded. He will not try to see you, I am certain. And now, my dear girl, for that other and better plan that I spoke of last evening. But first you must take a drive with me—a somewhat lengthy drive."

She looked at him wonderingly, but in no fear.

"A drive," she repeated. "Where?"

"Only to Harlem—not quite out of the world," with a smile. "The carriage is waiting. Go put on your bonnet, and come."

"It is very odd," thought Mollie.

But she obeyed implicitly, and in five minutes they were rattling along over the stony streets.

"Won't you tell me now?" the young lady asked.

"Not yet. Let the mystery develop itself as it does in a novel. Trust to me, and prepare for a great shock."

She gazed at him, utterly unable to comprehend. He was smiling, but he was strangely pale.

"It is no jest, surely," Mollie said. "It is something serious. You look as though it were."

"Heaven knows I never was more serious in my life. Don't ask any more questions now, Mollie; but if I have ever done you the slightest service, try to bear it in mind. You will need to remember it shortly, and I will stand sorely in want of all your magnanimity."

He said no more, and Mollie sat in a dazed state, but still happy, as she ever must be by his side. And on, and on, and on they rattled, and the city was left behind, and they were driving through the quiet of Harlem, green and pretty in its summery freshness.

The driver, obeying some directions of Mr. Ingelow, turned up a shady green lane ending in a high gate-way.

They entered the gate-way and drove up through a long avenue of waving trees to a square, fair mansion of gleaming white—a large wooden structure with intensely green blinds, all closely shut.

Mollie sat and looked in speechless expectation. Mr. Ingelow, volunteering no explanation, assisted her out, desired cabby to wait, opened the door with a latch-key, and ushered Mollie in.

The entrance-hall was very much like any other entrance-hall; so, likewise, was the broad stair-way; so, also, the upper landing.

It was only when Mr. Ingelow, pausing before one of the doors in the second hall, spoke, that Mollie received her first shock.

"You will enter here, Mollie, and wait. Prepare yourself for a great surprise—a terrible surprise, perhaps."

He bowed and left her, passing into another room, and closing the door.

All in an agitated flutter, Mollie opened her door and entered. But on the threshold she paused, with a shrill cry of wonder, terror, and doubt; for the padded walls and floor, the blind windows, the lighted lamp, the bed, the furniture, were all recognized in a moment.

It was the room where she had been first imprisoned—where she had consented to marry the masked man.

A quiet figure rose from a chair under the lamp and faced her with a courtesy. It was the girl who had lured her from her home—Sarah Grant.

"Come in, miss," said this young person, as though they had just parted an hour ago. "Master told me to expect you. Sit down; he'll be here in a minute. You look fit to drop."

She felt "fit to drop." She sunk into the proffered seat, trembling through every limb in her body, overwhelmed with a stunning consciousness that the supreme moment of her life had come.

Sarah Grant left the room, and Mollie was alone. Her eyes turned to the door, and fixed themselves there as if fascinated. Her head was awhirl—her mind a blank. Something tremendous was about to happen—what, she could not think.

The door opened slowly—the man in the black mask strode in and stood, silent and awful, before her.

Without a word or cry, but white as death, she rose up and confronted him with wild, dilated eyes.

"You know me, Mollie," the masked man said, addressing her, as before, in French—"I am your husband."

"Yes," Mollie answered, her white lips scarce able to form the words. "For God's sake, take off that mask and show me your face!"

Without a word, he unclasped the cloak and let it slip on the floor; he removed the flowing hair and beard, and with it the mask. And uttering a low, wailing cry, Mollie staggered back—for there before her, pale as herself, stood the man she loved—Hugh Ingelow!

WHICH WINDS UP THE BUSINESS.

He stood before her, pale and stern, his eyes fixed upon her, as a culprit before his judge waiting sentence of death.

But Mollie never looked. After that one brief, irrepressible cry, she had fallen back, her face bowed and hidden in her hands.

"You shrink from me, Mollie," Hugh Ingelow said; "you will not even look at me. I knew it would be so. I know I deserve it; but if I were never to see you again, I must tell you the truth all the same. Yes, Mollie, recoil from me, hate me, spurn me, for the base, unmanly part I have acted. It is not Doctor Oleander who is the dastard, the villain, the abductor of weak women—it is I!"

She did not speak, she did not move, she made no sign that she even heard him.

"It will avail me little, I know," he continued, "to tell you I have repented the dastardly deed in bitterness of spirit since. It will avail nothing to tell you how I have hated myself for that cruel and cowardly act that made me your husband. I think you maddened me, Mollie, with your heartless, your insulting rejection, and I did love you passionately. I swore, in my heart of hearts, I would be avenged, and, Mollie, you know how I kept my vow."

Still no reply, still no movement on Mollie's part. She stood half bowed, her head averted, her face covered by her hands.

"It drove me into a sort of frenzy, the thought of your becoming Sir Roger Trajenna's wife. If he had been a young man, and you had loved him, I would have bowed my head, as before a shrine, and gone my way and tried to forgive you and wish you happiness. But I knew better. I knew you were selling yourself for an old man's rank, for an old man's gold, and I tried to despise and hate you. I tried to think that no base act I could commit would be baser than the marriage you were ready to make. A plan—mad, impracticable as my own mad love, flashed across my brain, and, like many other things impossible in theory, I did it! It seemed an impossiblity to tear you from the very altar, and make you my wife, all unknown, but I did it. I had this house here, uninhabited, furnished. I had a friend ready to help me to the death. I disguised myself like a hero of romance, I decoyed you here, forced you to consent, I married you!"

Still mute, still dropping, still averted, still motionless. There was a tremor in Hugh Ingelow's steady voice when he went on.

"How hard it was for me, what a cruel, cold-blooded monster I felt myself, how my very heart of hearts was touched by your suffering here, I can not tell. Besides, it would seem like mockery, since all my compassion did not make me spare you. But from the moment you set foot here I considered it too late; and then, besides, Mollie, I was mad with love of you. I could not let you go. You yielded—you consented to barter yourself for freedom, as once before you consented for gold. I brought the Reverend Raymond Rashleigh here—he married me under my second name of Ernest—as you know."

He paused again. Still no sign, and then he went on:

"I let you go. I did not dare reveal myself, but I kept my promise. Hate me, Mollie, as you will; despise me, as you must—but try and think how dearly I love you. I would lay down my life for you, my darling Mollie. That would be an easy sacrifice; it remains for me to make a greater one. A divorce shall set you free. I myself will obtain that divorce. No one knows of our marriage—no one ever shall know. I will leave you free—free as the wind that blows—to go forth and make happy a more honorable and deserving man. Only, Mollie, no man ever will love you as I love you!" His voice failed. He turned abruptly away, and stood as if waiting for her to speak. But she never uttered a word.

He took her silence for a token of her utter scorn and hate.

"Farewell then, Mollie," he said. "I go, and I will never molest you more. The carriage that brought you here will fetch you home again. But before we part forever, let me say this—if you ever want a friend, and can so far forgive me the wrong I have done you as to call upon me for help, then, Mollie, I will try to repair my unpardonable offense."

He walked to the door, he turned the handle, he gave one last, despairing look—and what did he see? A little, white hand extended imploringly, and a pathetic little voice, tremulously speaking:

"Hugh, don't go!"

He stopped, turning ghastly white.

"Mollie! For God's sake—"

"Don't—don't go, Mr. Ingelow! Don't go, for I forgive you—I love you!"

Hugh Ingelow gave one amazed cry—it was more like a shout—and in the next ecstatic moment Miss Dane was in his arms, held there as if he never would let her go.

"Please don't!" Mollie said, pettishly. "What do you suppose a person's ribs are made of, to stand such bear's hugs as that? Besides, I didn't tell you to. I only asked you not to mind the divorce—to-day!"

"Mollie, Mollie! for Heaven's sake, don't trifle with me! I am nearly beside myself—what with remorse, despair, and now hope. Tell me—can you ever forgive me? But I am mad to ask it, to hope for it. I know what you said to Doctor Oleander."

"Do you?" said Mollie; "but then you're not Doctor Oleander."

"Mollie!"

"But still," said Mollie, solemnly, and disengaging herself, "when I have time to think about it, I am sure I shall hate you like poison. I do now, but I hate divorces more. Oh, Mr. Ingelow! how could you behave so disgracefully?"

And then all at once and without the slightest premonitory warning, the young lady broke out crying hysterically, and to do it the better laid her face on Mr. Ingelow's shoulder. And, that bold buccaneer of modern society gathered the little girl close to his heart, like the presumptuous scoundrel he was, and let her cry her fill; and the face he bent over her was glorified and ecstatic.

"Stop crying, Mollie," he said at last, putting back the yellow curls, and peeping at the flushed, wet, pretty face. "Stop crying, my dear little wife, and look up and say, 'Hugh, I forgive you.'"

"Never!" said Mollie. "You cruel, tyrannical wretch, I hate you!"

And saying it, Mollie put her arms round his neck, and laughed and cried wildly in the same breath.

"The hysterics will do you good, my dear," said Mr. Ingelow; "only don't keep them up too long, and redden your precious blue eyes, and swell your dear little nose. Mollie, is it possible you love me a little, after all?"

Mollie lifted her face again, and looked at him with solemn, shining eyes.

"Oh, Hugh! am I really and truly—your very wife?"

"My very own—my darling Mollie—my precious little bride, as fast as Church and State and Mr. Rashleigh can make you."

"Oh, Hugh, it was a shame!"

"I know it, Mollie—a dreadful shame! But you'll be a Christian, won't you, and try to forgive me?"

"I'll try, but I'm afraid it is impossible. And all the time I thought it was Doctor Oleander. Oh, Hugh, you've no idea how miserable I was."

There was a mysterious twinkle in Hugh's eyes.

"Almost as miserable as at present, Mollie?"

"Yes; more so, if such a thing be possible. It's shocking to carry off a girl like that, and marry her against her will. Nobody in this world, but an angel like myself, would ever forgive you."

"Which is equivalent to saying you do forgive me. Thousand thanks, Mrs. Ingelow. Tell me, would you ever have forgiven Guy Oleander?"

"You know I wouldn't," Mollie answered, blushing beautifully at her new name; "but, then, you're different."

"How, Mollie?"

"Well—well, you see I hate Doctor Oleander, and I don't hate you."

"You like me a little, Mollie, don't you? Ah, my darling, tell me so. You know you never have yet."

And then Mollie put her two arms round his neck, and held up her lovely, blushing face.

"Dear, dear Hugh! I love you with all my heart! And the happiest day of Mollie's life is the day she finds you are Mollie's husband!"

They were back in the carriage, driving through the golden mist of the sunny afternoon slowly back to the city. Side by side, as happy lovers sit, they sat and talked, with—oh, such infinitely blissful faces!

"And now," said Mollie, "what are we going to do about it? It will never answer to reveal this horrid little romance of ours to all the world."

"Nor shall I. The world has no right to our secrets, and the Reverend Raymond Rashleigh will go to his grave with his little mystery unsolved. But we will be married again, openly and before the world, and you, Mrs. Ingelow, will be under double obligation, because you will have promised to love, honor and obey twice."

"And we'll go and live out at Harlem, in the dear, romantic old house?" Mollie said, with sparkling eyes.

"Yes, if you wish it. I will have it repaired and refurnished immediately, and, while the workmen are about it, we will be enjoying our wedding-tour. For we must be married at once, Mollie," with a comical look.

Mollie blushed and fidgeted, and laughed a little nervous laugh.

"This day fortnight will give you ample time for all the wedding garniture," said the young man. "You hear, Mollie—a fortnight."

Mollie sighed resignedly, "Of course, you will play the tyrant, as usual, and carry me off willy-nilly, if I don't consent. You must have everything your own way, I suppose. And now—I'm dying to know—tell me, who is Sarah Grant?"

"An eminently respectable young woman, and the wife of my foster-brother. She and her husband would do anything under the sun for me. The husband was the coachman who drove you when you were abducted—who witnessed the marriage, and who is driving us now. Sarah's a trump! Didn't she outwit Oleander nicely?"

"How? Oh, Hugh," clasping her hands, "I see it all—the resemblance just puzzled me so. Sarah Grant was Susan Sharpe."

"Of course, she was, and a capital nurse she made. Sarah's worth her weight in gold, and you will tell her so the next time you see her. And now, here we are at Mrs. Watson's, and so good-bye for an hour or two, my little wife."

And Mollie went in, her face radiant, and all the world changed since she had left.

With the "witching hour of candle-light" came Mr. Ingelow again, to spend the evening with his lady-love. He looked a little serious, as Mollie saw.

"What is it, Hugh?" she asked, in alarm.

"Nothing much. I was thinking of Walraven. I saw him this afternoon."

"Well?" breathlessly.

"He is off again. Back to Europe, in the steamer to-morrow, never to return, he says. I never saw a man more cast down. So old Madame Walraven will be monarch of all she surveys once more, and the Fifth Avenue mansion will be the abode of darkness and desolation again. Miss Blanche is settled at Yonkers for good."

"Did you tell him—"

"About our forthcoming nuptials? Oh, yes! He looked rather surprised, and asked about the Mysterious Unknown in the mask. But I pooh-poohed that matter—told him I didn't think the mysterious husband would ever trouble us, and I don't think he will. By the bye, Sir Roger Trajenna goes to-morrow, too, so my little girl is deserted by all, and must cling the closer to me."

While Carl Walraven and Sir Roger Trajenna sailed over the wide sea—while Blanche Walraven ground her teeth in impotent rage up at Yonkers—while Dr. Guy Orleander pursued his business in New York, and scowled darkly at the failure of his plans—the daily papers burst out, one morning, with the jubilant news that Hugh Ernest Ingelow, Esq., and Miss Mollie Dane were one flesh. The Reverend Raymond Rashleigh performed the ceremony, and the wedding was a very quiet affair, and the happy pair started off at once to spend the honey-moon in a trip to the Canadas.

So we leave Cricket—all her girlish troubles, and flirtations, and wildness over, to settle down into the dearest, brightest, loveliest little wife in wide America. Happy as the days are long, and bright as the sun that shines, has Cricket been since Hugh Ingelow has been her husband.

THE END.