"And so you do not regret the loss of fortune nor of fortune's friends?" Clifford questioned, while with the fond, new hope in his heart he regarded her with more of tenderness in his glance than he was aware of.

And Mollie flushed beneath his look, more because she was becoming conscious that something within her was springing forth to meet that which shone in his eyes than because of embarrassment.

"I cannot quite say that, Mr. Faxon," she gravely replied, "for I should be glad of an independent income—even though it was small—that would enable me to do more for my father and put him under the constant care of experts; for, in spite of what the physicians have told me, I cannot quite give up all hope. I cannot bear to think that he must live on indefinitely in his present darkened mental condition.

"But as for myself," with an uplifting of her pretty head that denoted conscious strength, "I do not regret the experience of the last two years which the loss of fortune has brought me, and which has proved to me that it is more noble and satisfactory to be a useful woman than a butterfly of fashion. As for the 'friends of fortune,' that was well put, Mr. Faxon, for those who have turned the cold shoulder upon me were simply that and nothing more, and there is nothing to regret. It is far better to have discovered the truth than to go on being cajoled and deceived. I may say that there are but few whom I can regard as true friends, and most of those I have made since I became a working girl. What a queer world it is, isn't it? What a strange element there is in humanity, which, as a rule—though there is now and then a rare exception—does not take into account the real worth of an individual, but is ready to hug to the heart a mental beggar and a moral leper, provided he is sufficiently gilded with money. Can you explain it?"

"I think it can all be summed up in one word, Miss Heatherford, and that is—selfishness," Clifford replied.

"Y—es," she thoughtfully assented, "and yet I think I should add pride, vanity and ostentation."

"And what is pride but self-esteem, self-conceit? What are vanity and ostentation but egotism and self-sufficiency?"

"You are right!" said Mollie, sitting suddenly erect, as if some new thought had taken possession of her. "Why! I never thought of it before, but the world—society so-called—is governed by selfishness!"

"I am afraid that is the fact, as a rule," assented the young man.

"How dreadful!" sighed his companion; "what veritable heathen idolaters we are, in spite of our boasted civilization and Christianity; and how little we know the meaning of the 'Golden Rule!'"

"That is true; self is the god of this world," said Clifford; "and when we attempt to analyze humanity we find it in every phase of life. Royalty 'lifts its crested head' and declares, 'I am enthroned; come not near, except on bended knee.' The multimillionaire, with lofty air, says, 'Keep a respectful distance, unless you can match my purse with one as heavy.' The merchant and banker refuse to associate with their butcher and grocer; the employer looks down upon his employee; the mistress upon her maid; and so it goes all along down the line even to newsboys and bootblacks; for——" and here Faxon laughed, "to illustrate, I saw two boys on the street the other day; one had a bundle of papers under his arm; the other was stationed on a corner, with his kit for blacking boots. 'Hello!' called out the newsboy familiarly and with an envious glance at the kit, 'how long yer ben at it?' 'Git out!' cried the youthful proprietor loftily, 'I've gone inter biz for myself, I have; an' we don't take newsboys inter our 'sociation.' So from the crowned heads of royalty down to the bootblack, who lords it over the peddler of papers, because he makes his nickel where the other gets but a penny, we find the serpent self with its spirit of arrogance and malicious sting."

"That is true," said Mollie, with a sigh, "and, worse than all, we find it even in the churches, where the rich and intellectually proud hold aloof from the poor widow and orphan and the beggar at their doors, except, perhaps, to bestow, with lofty patronage a little of their surplus wealth, and hoping thus to cancel their obligations as Christians and believe that they have fulfilled the law of Love. Oh, I am beginning to see how little the meaning of that word is understood."

"And it never will be understood until the world learns how to 'deny self' and become 'poor in spirit,' as taught by the Great Teacher nineteen centuries ago," Clifford supplemented in a reverent tone.

Mollie bent a thoughtful look upon his face. She thought him the grandest character she had ever met. No young man of her acquaintance had ever discussed such subjects in her presence before—they had always been, for the most part, full of small talk, jest and compliment—and she knew that most of her girl friends would have regarded such a conversation as prosy and stupid.

But she liked it—it seemed to meet something that she had long hungered for. Faxon had struck a note in nature that vibrated in keenest sympathy and perfect harmony with his thought, and when they parted that evening both felt as if they must have known each other for years.

After that they saw each other frequently. Mollie had invited him to 'come again,' and feeling that she was perfectly sincere, he had not hesitated to avail himself of the privilege. Each time they met they were drawn nearer each other, for they liked the same books and authors. Faxon was a good reader, Mollie an appreciative listener, while they had many an animated discussion over what they read.

They attended lectures, concerts and occasionally the theater and opera; though Mollie would not go often to the latter place because of the expense, which she doubted that Faxon could afford. But she told herself that she had never enjoyed a winter, even during her palmiest days, as she had enjoyed this one.

She well knew why; she had long known that she loved Clifford Faxon with all her heart, and she was sure that he returned her affection, although as yet no word of confession had escaped him. Nevertheless, she had abundant evidence of the fact in his every act, in every glance of his eyes and every tone of his voice. Yet she was not impatient—she was content to bide his time, well knowing that when he felt it right to speak he would do so.

Her new happiness added greatly to her loveliness. There was a brighter light in her deep blue eyes, a sweeter, sunnier smile—if that were possible—on her lips, a buoyancy, an elasticity in her every movement and step which plainly betrayed that she loved to live and lived to love.

Monsieur Lamonti was quick to observe these things, and wondered within himself what had caused this radiant change in her. He was not long left in doubt, for one afternoon he met the lovers, face to face, upon the street.

Mollie stopped short in his path and greeted him cordially; then, with beaming eyes and heightened color, introduced her companion. The three stood chatting for a few moments, then parted and went their different ways.

The next morning Monsieur Lamonti interrupted Mollie in her work, and, after discussing two or three questions relating to business, suddenly inquired:

"By the way, mademoiselle, allow me to ask who was the gentleman to whom you introduced me yesterday? His name, of course, I know—Monsieur Faxon—but is he an old or a new friend?"

Mollie blushed delightfully at the question.

"He is both, monsieur, if you can comprehend anything so paradoxical," she said with a musical little laugh of rippling happiness, and which called an answering smile to her listener's lips. Then she went on and frankly told him the whole of Cliff's history as far as she knew it, from the time of her first meeting with him in the station at New Haven to his coming to Washington, while Monsieur Lamonti appeared greatly interested, and reading in the girl's every look and tone the sweet love-story that was making her life so beautiful.

"Ah," he observed when she concluded, "Mr. Faxon is a self-made man; he is doubtless a noble young man. I am sure he will rise yet higher and do himself honor."

Mollie smiled with pleasure at his commendation of her lover.

"I also am sure he will," she said with shining eyes.

"And what is he doing now, mademoiselle?" queried the gentleman.

"At present he is in the Patent Office, with the expectation of a promotion at the beginning of the year."

"Well, mademoiselle, it is evident he is a fine young fellow; he certainly looks it; I am truly glad you have such a friend," said Monsieur Lamonti, with a kindness and sincerity that touched Mollie deeply.

He resumed his writing, and nothing more was said upon the subject, but Mollie observed that, from time to time, he paused in his work and gazed abstractedly out of the window, as if his thoughts were busy elsewhere.

A few days later on reaching the office she found a note from Clifford, asking if she would go with him the following evening to hear Madam Melba in "Faust."

He mentioned the fact that he was well acquainted with a prominent member of the company, who had offered him complimentary tickets for a box or any seats which he might prefer elsewhere in the house, and would she please signify which she would like best.

Mollie smiled as she read the note. She knew it would be the "first night" of the opera, and she understood that Clifford feared that she either might not be able or wish to appear in evening dress, and so had given her a choice of seats, while, too, it would settle the question regarding what his own attire should be.

She responded cordially, saying she would be delighted to hear Melba, and would enjoy the box if it would be agreeable to him. Clifford wrote a clear, symmetrical hand, and before returning his missive to its envelope Mollie passed it to Monsieur Lamonti, remarking that perhaps he would like to see Mr. Faxon's penmanship.

"People claim, you know," she said, smiling, "that there is a great deal of character expressed in a person's handwriting."

Monsieur Lamonti read the note, then passed it back to her with the observation:

"It is certainly a fine hand, mademoiselle, and if it is an exponent of Mr. Faxon's character, I should judge him to be a frank, honest, high-minded young man."

Mollie was, of course, pleased with this tribute to her lover, for she saw that it was sincere, while she knew that Monsieur Lamonti was a keen observer, and she was sure that he regarded Clifford with approbation.

The next afternoon, while she was putting some finishing touches to an evening dress which she had remodeled to wear to the opera, Monsieur Lamonti's coachman drove to the door, and a few moments later Eliza came to her, bringing a good-sized box.

On opening it, Mollie gave a cry of delight as her eyes fell upon a rare collection of hot-house flowers, whose perfume filled the room, and which she well knew, without glancing at the accompanying card, had been culled from the greenhouse of her good friend.

"How kind, how thoughtful he always is!" she murmured appreciatively as she buried her face in the mass of luxuriant bloom to inhale the delicious fragrance.

Later, when Clifford called for her she was radiantly lovely in her rich, lustrous silk of pale blue, another creation of Worth's, and a remnant of her old-time glory which had long been packed away as unsuitable to wear in her present circumstances. The dress, with a few alterations, seemed almost like new.

She wore diamonds upon her neck and in her ears; also a dazzling ornament in her golden hair, for her jewels—many of which had been her mother's—had also been carefully stowed away, her father having insisted that she should keep them, although she had cheerfully offered to relinquish every one if such sacrifice would lighten his burdens in any way. But he had told her, "No; every debt would be paid, and the gems were too sacred to be surrendered."

Her hands and arms were encased in long white gloves, chosen from the box with which Monsieur Lamonti had presented her, and as Faxon entered, she was just tying a long ribbon around a bouquet which she had arranged from Monsieur Lamonti's floral offering.

The young man's eyes glowed with tender admiration as Mollie went forward to meet him.

"Ah," he said ingenuously and with a thrill of fondness in his voice as he clasped her extended hand, "I am so glad you chose the box."

Mollie laughed musically, for his words told her that he had hoped to find her in evening dress, and was more than pleased with her appearance.

"It was very kind of you to give me the option," she replied with a glance which plainly told him that she had understood his motive and thoroughly appreciated it.

"Well," he observed, with a twinkle in his handsome eyes, "I thought we might as well make the most of our opportunity. What lovely flowers!"

"They are, indeed!" she returned. "Monsieur Lamonti sent them."

Then as she glanced at the lapel of his coat she continued: "And you must have a boutonniere; may I select something for you?"

"Not if you will have to rob this; I would not have a single blossom disarranged," said Clifford, as he eyed the bouquet admiringly.

"Oh, no; I have quantities more," said Mollie, as she gently released the hand which he had unconsciously been holding and turned to a table which there was a large glass dish filled with flowers.

She bent over them and paused to consider what she would offer him. Presently she detached three small crimson moss-rosebuds with a single spray of green leaves and held them up before him.

"Will you wear these?" she queried.

A great shock went coursing through Clifford as he took them from her white gloved hands and regarded them with a yearning look.

Then his eyes—almost black now with the intensity of his emotion—sought her face.

"May I?" he breathed, "may I wear them with the assurance of what they express? Do you know the language of the red moss-rosebud, Mollie?"

A scarlet flood leaped to the fair girl's temples as she realized, too late, the significance of her gift; while his use of her given name, for the first time, set every pulse to bounding wildly. She lifted a startled look to his face; then as quickly her golden lashes dropped upon her flaming cheeks.

"Yes, I know," she murmured, "but I did not think of it when I chose them."

"I know you did not, love," Clifford returned as he bent forward and gathered both her hands into his, "and it was an unfair question, I am afraid. But I love you, dear—I love you. You must have seen it, you must have read it for weeks, for my every thought has been of and for you, and sometimes I have even dared to think that your thought has been responsive to mine, assuring me that I had won your heart, and that my future is to be crowned with the supreme blessing of your love. You do not turn from me—you do not take your hands from mine—may I hope, Mollie? Tell me that you love me—that you will be my wife when I shall have won a position worthy to offer you. May I wear the buds as the token of your assent? Oh, my darling, where can I find language to tell you all that is in my heart? Tell me—tell me!"

His passionate emotion moved her deeply, although his voice had been raised scarcely above a whisper. His fond words, his rich, thrilling tones were like the solemn notes of an organ. She never had been so supremely happy in her life as at that moment, and yet she wanted to weep.

But her whole heart went out to him. She lifted her eyes to his and they were brimming with tears.

"Yes, you know—you must have long known that I love you, Clifford," she whispered.

He could not speak for the moment. He was white, even to his lips, with joy that was beyond words. He lifted her hands and laid them about his neck; then his arms slid around her graceful form and drew her to his breast, where he held her close—so close that she could both feel and hear the throbbing of his heart.

They stood thus for a few moments, speechless from the consciousness of the sacred union. At length Clifford gently released her and, fondly placing one hand beneath her chin, lifted her face and scanned it earnestly.

"Tears?" he said softly.

"Yes," said Mollie, with a shy, sweet laugh, "my cup is so full it cannot hold all my joy, and some had to brim over."

"Sweetheart!" he murmured, but he still continued to study her face with a look that seemed to have something of wonderment in it.

"Why do you look at me like that? Of what are you thinking?" Mollie inquired.

"I am wondering how it would have been with us if Mr. Heatherford had never lost his millions," said the young man reflectively.

"Clifford!" cried Mollie, in a tone of reproach, "you know I should have loved you just the same; but I am glad that I am poor, for I am awfully afraid if I had not been, you would have been too proud to tell me what you have told me to-night."

"Suppose such had been the case?" he smilingly questioned.

"I—I think I should have made you confess it somehow," she replied with an imperative little tap of her foot, "or"—with a gleam of mischief in her happy eyes, "I might have unsexed myself and proposed to you—oh! I am afraid I almost did as it is," she concluded, flushing again rosily as she thought of the rosebuds.

He laughed joyously and caught her to him again; then, bending his handsome head, he kissed her softly, reverently on her lips.

"I shall never wear anything but the red moss-rose after this," he said, "and now after you have fastened them in for me, we must go, or we shall be late for the opera. And I nearly forget, dear—I have tickets for to-morrow night to see Willard in the 'Professor's Love-story.'"

"Aren't you getting dissipated, Cliff?" questioned Mollie chidingly.

"Wouldn't you like to see the play?"

Mollie took the rosebuds daintily in her white-gloved fingers, shot a sly glance up at him as she kissed them, then slipped them deftly into the buttonhole and fastened them there.

"Yes. Willard is fine," she said, "but I'm afraid that I am not quite so deeply interested in the 'Professor's Love-story' just at present as I am in my own."

"My darling!" said Faxon in a voice that was tremulous with his new, great happiness as he pressed his lips upon her white forehead. Then he lifted a beautiful opera-cloak that was hanging over a chair, and laid it over her shoulders.

It was made of white brocaded satin, trimmed with ermine, and her golden-crowned head, with the crescent of flashing diamonds rising out of its snowy whiteness, made him think of some rare and beautiful flower.

"My own, you look like a queen in your coronation-robe, and I feel like a king who has just been crowned," he fondly murmured as he fastened the silver clasp beneath her chin.

"You are a king, Cliff—my king," Mollie softly responded.

A minute later they were rolling swiftly up-town, sitting hand in hand and feeling as if an enchanted future lay before them.

The house was filled and brilliant with a first-night audience as they stepped within their box, and many a glass was leveled at the peerlessly beautiful girl and her handsome escort, with expressions of mingled admiration, wonder, and curiosity. As it happened, Philip Wentworth and his mother were located in the box directly opposite, and both gave a start of undisguised surprise as Mollie took her seat, for they recognized her instantly.

"Why, Phil!" exclaimed Mrs. Temple, "she really looks like the old-time Mollie, doesn't she? She still has her diamonds, I see, and I suppose no one here would believe she had ever worn that dress before. I recognize it, however, although I must confess it looks just as fresh as it did when she arrived from Paris. She is downright beautiful, Phil! Oh, dear! I wish they hadn't lost their money. Do you know who that is with her? It seems as if I had seen him before."

"He's that cad Faxon—blast him!" Philip replied, his face flaming with sudden anger and shame.

"Why do you call him that, Phil?—he certainly looks like a gentleman. Oh, by the way, isn't he the young man who worked his own way through Harvard and took the second honor in your class?"

"Yes."

"And he is the one who had that ring of Mollie's. Did you ever find out how he came by it?"

"No." He preferred to lie about it rather than explain Faxon's heroic deed.

"Mercy, Phil, how monosyllabic you are," said Mrs. Temple as she shot a curious sidelong glance at him. "I fully intended to ask Mollie about it when she returned, but I never thought of it. Have you any idea how he became acquainted with Mollie?"

"How should I know?" queried Philip evasively, but he found great difficulty in controlling himself sufficiently to preserve a respectful tone, and his hands were so tightly clenched that the nails actually cut the palms.

The sight of the couple opposite had brought vividly to his mind the night when he had overtaken and insulted Mollie upon the street and Faxon had come to the rescue. He had never seen either of them since, but he had felt deeply humiliated every time he had thought of the affair, and his old hatred of Clifford increased a hundred-fold in view of the indignity, merited though it was, that he had suffered at his hands.

"How handsome he is!" he mentally exclaimed as he studied those bright faces. "He is dressed in the very latest style, too, and I wonder where he gets the cash to sport a box? And Mollie—she is just too lovely for anything!" A shaft of pain went quivering through him from head to foot as he feasted his eyes upon her beauty.

"There is no one like her—and I love her in spite of everything," he went on, choking back something very like a sob, "but, of course, she must positively hate me now. What a fool I was not to have made sure that she was a stranger before I spoke to her that night!"

These were some of the thoughts which thronged Philip Wentworth's brain as he sat and watched the young couple, paying very little heed to the brilliant prima donna on the stage.

The footlights were bright enough to enable him to see their every movement—almost their every look, and he was quick to observe Faxon's tender glance and manner whenever he addressed his fair companion; while Mollie's varying color, the glad light in her eyes, whenever they met his, and the happy smiles that rippled over her lips were simply maddening to his jealous heart, and aroused a terrible fear within him.

"By Jove!" he said to himself, a cold chill creeping over him. "I believe, upon my soul that there is an understanding between them, and it would certainly cap the climax of the worst I ever dreamed if he should win her."

He could not tell whether Mollie was conscious of his and his mother's presence or not. Of course, he knew that the occupants of one box were just as conspicuous as those in another, and two or three times he had seen her lift her gold-mounted glass and sweep the house. But if she had seen them she gave no sign of the fact.

He wondered if she would preserve the strict letter of the sentence which she had pronounced upon him the last time they met, if he should happen to encounter her again, and he was soon to have that question settled beyond all doubt.

When the opera was over and while Mollie and Clifford were waiting at the entrance of the theater for their carriage, Philip and his mother came upon them suddenly.

Mrs. Temple, finished woman of the world though she was, was taken aback a trifle, and the warm color flushed to her face. Yet she greeted Mollie with something of her old-time cordiality, for the girl was so exquisitely lovely that her heart involuntarily warmed toward her.

Still there was a certain reserve in her manner which Mollie was quick to feel, although she responded with equal courtesy. She was keenly sensitive to the fact also that Mrs. Temple had felt no interest to seek her out, even though she had been in Washington many weeks; but, at the same time, she bore herself with a quiet dignity, which plainly betrayed that it would take more than the loss of property and fair-weather friends to crush either her spirit or self-respect. Moreover, when Phil advanced as his mother moved on she looked him full in the face and gave him the cut direct.

He was as white as his immaculate tie as he strode on, inwardly foaming with mingled rage and mortification. He knew now that she would adhere to what she had said. She had taken her stand and would maintain it, and he realized that he fully merited the punishment meted out to him. But to see her standing so proudly by the side of the man whom he both envied and hated, and leaning upon his arm with that air of confidence and content, was almost more than he could endure and retain his self-control.

Clifford had been a deeply interested observer of the little scene. Philip Wentworth and his mother had taken no more notice of him than if he had been simply one of the pillars which supported the arch above them.

Mollie also had observed Philip's slight and resented it, her hand involuntarily closing over Cliff's arm, and thus betraying her indignation. Possibly she might not have been quite so frigidly statuesque but for that.

"I did not care to introduce you to Mrs. Temple, dear," she explained to Clifford as soon as they were seated in their carriage. "I am afraid, though, it made it a trifle awkward for you; but I hope you do not mind."

"Not in the least, for, of course, it was her place to recognize me, since we had met before," Faxon smilingly returned.

"What!" cried Mollie, in resentful astonishment, "and she presumed to ignore you!"

"It is barely possible that she did not recognize me," the young man quietly replied, although he was quite sure to the contrary, for he had not been unobservant of the interest which the occupants of the box opposite his own had manifested in connection with Mollie and himself during the evening.

Then he told her something of the circumstances of his meeting with Mr. Temple on the campus at Cambridge four years previous.

"Well, it is the way of the world I suppose," said Mollie with a gentle sigh. "She used to appear to be very fond of me when we lived in New York, and we have exchanged visits many times, but she, like others, has given me a very cold shoulder since I became the child of misfortune, and what makes it seem worse in this case is the fact that Mr. Temple was responsible for the climax of my father's financial ruin."

She explained as well as she was able how this had happened, but the lovers soon drifted to more agreeable topics, and, caring little for either the smiles or frowns of the Temples, or of any one else, in fact, for they were far too deeply absorbed in their own new-found happiness—their world, for the present at least, was circumscribed by each other and their individual interests.

But for Mollie the tables were soon to be turned by a most unexpected and signal triumph—a triumph which caused many an old friend (?) a taste of bitter regret and mortification.

About a week later, on entering Monsieur Lamonti's office, she found her friend absent and a note lying on her desk. It proved to be from her employer, who mentioned that he was a trifle under the weather, but requested that she would go on with her work as far as she was able and then come to him for instructions.

She worked diligently until nearly noon, then, finding that she could do no more without explicit directions, she donned her hat and jacket and proceeded to Monsieur Lamonti's residence.

She found him ill in bed with a violent cold, and quite feverish, but he assured her that he would be all right in a day or two, when he would rejoin her at the office.

But the next morning a note from Nannette announced that he was worse, and as Mollie could not work alone, she went to the house, where she spent most of the day caring for Lucille, in order to allow the maid to give her undivided attention to her master. She left about five o'clock feeling greatly depressed, for Monsieur Lamonti had grown steadily worse, and the physician had told her that he was a very sick man, though he might pull through—a few hours would decide the matter.

Faxon spent the evening with her, and she was somewhat cheered by his presence. He left her at ten, but had not been gone fifteen minutes when Mollie heard a carriage dash up to the door and the next moment the bell clanged a vigorous and imperative peal.

She rushed to the door to find Monsieur Lamonti's footman standing without and looking pale and anxious.

"Oh! what is it?" she breathed in an almost inarticulate voice.

"The master is going, miss, for sure, and wants to see you," the man replied.

Mollie seized a long wrap and, while she was fastening it about her, explained to Eliza that she should be away all night. The next minute she was inside the carriage and being whirled at a rapid rate toward the Lamonti mansion.

She was comparatively calm when she arrived and followed the weeping Nannette to her master's room without a word, although she held the girl's hand in a clasp of sympathy on the way hither.

She was terribly shocked at the change in her kind friend which the last few hours had made, but she gave no outward sign of this except that she was very pale.

She found the physician, a trained nurse, and Monsieur Lamonti's lawyer present; but paying no heed to them she walked quietly to the bedside, where she sat down and took the hand which the man weakly extended to her. He was white as wax, but very calm, and smiled as his fingers closed over hers. He glanced up at his lawyer.

"Tell them to go out," he said, indicating the nurse, Nannette, and the physician, and as they passed from the room Mollie bent over her friend.

"You sent for me," she said gently, "what can I do for you?"

"Just this, mademoiselle," he replied gravely, but speaking with difficulty, "you have promised to care for my Lucille, to rear and educate her carefully, to be, in fact, a mother to her, as well as her legal guardian until she is of age or marries?"

"Yes," briefly but solemnly assented Mollie.

He thanked her with a little pressure of her hand.

"I have left explicit instructions," he resumed after a moment. "I have made all my wishes known in my will. Promise me that you will heed them all, that every one shall be carried out as I have directed," he concluded with impressive earnestness.

"I know you would not ask anything impossible of me, dear friend, so I cheerfully promise," Mollie unhesitatingly responded.

"Swear it, mademoiselle," said Monsieur Lamonti, glancing at the prayerbook which lay beside his pillow.

Mollie's lips trembled; the scene was becoming very trying to her.

"I will swear if monsieur wishes; but my word would be just as sacred to me as an oath," she said gently.

The man smiled up at her.

"That is enough—I am satisfied," he said, "and Mr. Ashley here already knows that I trust you implicitly, as I would my own daughter had she lived. Now, my child, let me add that you have been a great comfort to me; do not forget in the days to come that you made the last few months of a lonely, almost heart-broken man, much the brighter by your sweet presence, and the highest tribute I can show you is to trust you with my one earthly treasure—my Lucille. Now, I will not keep you, mademoiselle, adieu, and may the good God forever bless you and yours."

Mollie arose. She felt that she could scarcely have borne another word; her throat was almost convulsed, her eyes heavy with unshed tears, and yet she must not weep before him.

She could not speak, but she bent down and left a light caress upon the man's forehead, then swiftly but noiselessly passed from the room.

At the door she turned for one last look at her friend, to find his eyes fastened upon her, and in them a light of peace and gladness that she had never seen in them before. The memory of it never left her. That night Monsieur Lamonti passed away, and all Washington was grieved and shocked to read of it the following day.

A few days later another ripple of excitement was created among the elite of the nation's capital when the contents of Monsieur Lamonti's will were made known, and it was learned that a young and beautiful woman had been made the guardian of the distinguished gentleman's granddaughter and the executrix of the important testament. The document was simple and concise, but betrayed careful thought, and the fact that the testator knew exactly what he was about, for there was not a flaw in it that could possibly have been contested, had any one been disposed to do so.

It provided that all real estate, horses, carriages, plate, books, pictures, and choice bric-a-brac, together with certain stocks and bonds therein named, were to become the sole property of his beloved granddaughter, Lucille Gillette, to be held in trust for her, without bonds, until she arrived at the age of twenty-one or married, by Mademoiselle Marie Norton Heatherford, for whom the testator entertained the most profound esteem, and in whom he placed the utmost confidence, and who was hereby authorized and entreated to carry out his instructions to the letter, to wit: that she would legally adopt said Lucille Gillette as her own child, allowing her to retain her present name, and rear and educate her as tenderly and carefully as if she were indeed her own flesh and blood. Then there followed several minor bequests and requests, supplemented by something that was to make a radical change in Mollie's future.

In return for assuming said responsibilities, said Mademoiselle Heatherford would please accept the testator's deepest gratitude, together with, as a slight testimonial of the same, the residue of all that he possessed.

The will further provided that Mademoiselle Heatherford was to exercise perfect freedom in the choice of a place of residence; she was at liberty to occupy the present home of the youthful heiress, retaining the same number of servants, horses, and carriages, or dispose of the property and reside elsewhere, as she chose; the only stipulation being that she should always live in a style befitting the fortune and position of the testator's grandchild, all expenses to be paid out of the income of said grandchild, the bequest of Mademoiselle Heatherford being intended for her own private use and disposal.

She was advised to retain Monsieur Lamonti's present lawyer, as the testator regarded him a trustworthy and competent attorney; but she was not bound in any way to do so, if circumstances or her judgment should at any time dictate otherwise.

Of course, Mollie had expected something of this kind, in the event of Monsieur Lamonti's demise, for she had agreed to accept the charge of Lucille; but she was not prepared for, and was somewhat appalled by, the magnitude of the fortune which she would be required to manage in the future, and the absolute freedom from conditions and restrictions in which she found herself placed. Regarding the bequest to herself, she did not at first give much thought to it. Monsieur Lamonti, when talking the matter over with her, had assured her that she would receive ample remuneration, and she had inferred that she would, perhaps, be paid a salary—possibly somewhat increased—the same as she had been getting from him monthly for her services as private secretary.

His stating her remuneration in the blind way "as the residue of his property" she imagined might have been so expressed to save her feelings and prevent the curious public from knowing the amount she was to be paid for her services.

But a great surprise was in store for her. She was, of course obliged to consult with Monsieur Lamonti's lawyer, Mr. Ashley, in order to become familiar with all the details regarding her duties in connection with the property which she was to administer, and then she found that "the little Lucille" was a veritable little princess—that she was heiress to a most magnificent fortune.

"Oh, Mr. Ashley! I never can manage it. I am utterly incompetent!" she exclaimed in deep distress, when she began to comprehend something of the condition of affairs. The lawyer smiled.

"Of course, you are not expected to act alone; you must have help; your friend had no intention of having you harassed with pecuniary burdens. He left everything in excellent condition, and I assure you there will be no complications. I have everything in a nutshell, so to speak, though I confess it is a good big nut, and I am sure, from what Mr. Lamonti has told me regarding your business-capacity, that you will readily understand everything when I place my statements before you. But, Miss Heatherford, let us now talk about your own fortune. I shall want to know just what disposition to make of it."

"Fortune!" repeated Mollie, astonished. "I imagine you magnify Monsieur Lamonti's bequest to me; you dignify it by too high-sounding a name."

"He has left you exactly one-fourth of all that he possessed, Miss Heatherford," Mr. Ashley quietly returned.

"One-fourth!"

At first the words did not seem to mean much to Mollie. Then, as her active mind began to grasp the situation, she started violently, flushed, then paled.

"Mr. Ashley! you do not mean that! I—it cannot be possible!" she gasped in breathless astonishment. "Why! that would be——"

"Yes, exactly; since you already know what Lucille's fortune amounts to, it is comparatively an easy matter to compute your own," smilingly returned her companion, and thoroughly enjoying the surprise of the beautiful girl, for whom, although he had only recently made her acquaintance, he was rapidly acquiring a great admiration and respect.

"But I never dreamed of anything like this!" Mollie panted, for she was actually quivering with excitement. "Oh! It does not seem right. I have done nothing to deserve so much. I cannot accept it."

"But, my dear Miss Heatherford, you have no alternative," Mr. Ashley quietly observed. "Monsieur Lamonti has decreed what shall be done with his property, and you gave him your solemn promise, in my presence, that you would attend to having his wishes carried out to the letter."

"Ah! that was why he sent for me the night he—went away; that was why he was so particular, so explicit; that is why he tried to make me 'swear' that I would do as he wished," said Mollie, still looking much disturbed. "Did you know at that time why he was so insistent?"

"Yes. I had been with him a portion of every day during his illness, helping him draw up the will," the gentleman replied. "You did not 'swear,' Miss Heatherford, but you told him that your word would be just as sacred to you as an oath."

"Yes, I did; but I did not once suspect that he would put me to such a test; and, truly, I feel as if I have no moral right to such an amount, independent of all my expenses, as the will states. Why! it will make me, also, a rich woman!" Mollie concluded, with a look of real trouble in her eyes.

"Yes, it is certainly a very handsome plum, my dear young lady," Mr. Ashley assented, with a satisfied nod of his head; "while as for the right of the matter, allow me to say I consider that you have every right to it. In the first place, you are wronging no one living by accepting it, for little Miss Lucille Gillette will have more money than she will ever know what to do with. I will also say that I think you would wrong your late friend, Monsieur Lamonti, by rejecting the provision he has made for you, for he gave me some of his reasons for wishing to settle this amount upon you. For one thing, you saved the life of his granddaughter, did you not?"

"I—suppose I did," Mollie admitted rather reluctantly, then added: "But any one else would have done the same thing under the same circumstances."

"That may be very true; at the same time, I cannot see that such a view of the case detracts in the least from the heroism of your act, or lessens one whit the obligation which Monsieur Lamonti would naturally feel," the lawyer argued. "Then I understand that you were in his employ for some time, and not only served him most faithfully, winning his highest esteem and entire confidence, but——"

"Well, but he paid me generously," Mollie hastily interposed, and feeling decidedly uncomfortable to have her services so overestimated.

"Pardon me, Miss Heatherford," Mr. Ashley laughingly retorted, "but I can't have my argument spoiled in that way. I was about to say that you also saved your friend a great loss, not only of money, but of valuables which no money could replace. Am I right?"

"Yes," faltered Mollie. Then she laughed out rather nervously, and continued: "I perceive, Mr. Ashley, that you are determined to corner me, and I think it might be well for me to withdraw from the argument."

"Then it will have to be a one-sided one for a while longer, as I perceive you are not yet quite reconciled," her companion returned, with a smile. Then he observed very gravely: "There are some things which money can never repay, Miss Heatherford, and I am sure that Monsieur Lamonti felt that when he was making his will. Leaving all that had occurred, for which he felt there was no adequate return, out of the question, the fact that you were willing to assume the care of his little one relieved his heart of an incalculable burden."

"But I love Lucille; she is a dear child, and it will be a pleasure to me to care for her," broke in Mollie earnestly.

"You are condemning yourself, my young friend," said the lawyer, with twinkling eyes, "for don't you see that money is no recompense for such an interest in any one; then you have pledged yourself to be a mother to her, according to your highest conception of the word; you are to watch and guard her development; you are to see that she is properly educated for the position she will occupy by and by; you have sacredly promised to do everything in your power to make her a true and noble woman, and thus you are accountable in a great measure for her future. If I might be allowed to judge—and I have dear children of my own—I should say that no pecuniary emolument could ever balance such responsibilities. Now, let me advise you not to feel burdened by the bequest of your good friend, but accept it in the same spirit in which it was bestowed; take up your new duties cheerfully, and try to be just as happy as possible in your future sphere—a sphere which, if I am not mistaken, you are eminently fitted to grace. Don't you think that such a course would better please Monsieur Lamonti, if he could speak, than to reject, from an oversensitiveness, what I know he must have regarded as a small return for what he owed you in the past and all that he has asked of you for the future?"

Mollie was silent for a few minutes, while she gravely considered what he had said, and tried to realize how she herself would have felt if the positions had been reversed. At length she looked up with clear eyes and her own sunny smile.

"You are right, Mr. Ashley," she said, "you have made me see things in a different light, and yet I think it will take me some time to get over the feeling, in view of all the wealth that has come upon me, like an avalanche, to manage, that I have an embarrassment of riches."

"Do not be troubled," the gentleman kindly returned, "for if affairs are managed in the future as they have been in the past—I mean according to Monsieur Lamonti's system—you will find that everything will move along very smoothly."

"You are surely very comforting," Mollie observed, her heart beginning to grow light once more. "Of course, you must be my counselor, and I trust you will not mind if I come to you with all my troubles, as freely as if I were your own daughter, at least until I become accustomed to my new duties."

And the gentleman said he should be very happy to have her honor him with her confidence to such an extent.

In spite of the blind way in which Monsieur Lamonti had worded his bequest to Mollie, it became noised abroad that the future guardian of the youthful heiress had herself been very handsomely dowered, and immediately all Washington became intensely interested in her. The romantic incidents connected with the saving of the child's life and the capturing of the midnight burglar—for that, also, had been whispered about—the beauty and refinement of Miss Heatherford, whom numberless people now began to remember as a previous New York belle, became, for the time, the talk of society, and much interest and curiosity were manifested regarding her plans for the future.

Would she remain in Washington and maintain the fine establishment of the late millionaire, or would she retire to some place where she would not be so closely watched during the minority and educating of her young charge? Would she enter society again, after a proper season of seclusion out of respect to Monsieur Lamonti, entertain and be entertained, and finally be won by some aspiring young man of the world?

Of course, Mollie's early life and training had well fitted her to preside in the palatial home of Lucille, and to shine among the most distinguished people of Washington, or, indeed, of any city; and, although she did not give much thought to society just now, there was much to induce her to remain where she was.

She believed that her friend would prefer her to do so, at least for the present, and preserve his home just as he had left it, that Lucille might not too soon forget him; while, as she thought the matter over in all its bearings, it seemed almost like sacrilege to her to displace the beautiful furnishings and many treasures of art which had been so carefully purchased and arranged under his supervision; the servants were all well trained and trustworthy, and it would have entailed an infinite amount of perplexity and labor to make any change, and even though she felt that the responsibility of keeping up such an extensive establishment would be very great, she finally decided it was the right thing for her to do. Moreover, and it was the greatest inducement of all, Cliff was to remain indefinitely in Washington, and she felt that she could not be separated from him.

So her modest little home, in the humble street where they had lived for nearly two years, was broken up. Mr. Heatherford was removed to the pleasantest suite of rooms in the Lamonti residence, and the faithful Eliza was retained to act solely as his nurse and attendant.

"Poor, dear papa!" Mollie sighed as she bent fondly over him, after he was comfortably settled in a sunny south window of his luxurious apartment, "if you could only realize the good fortune that has come to us, after our battle with poverty, I should be perfectly happy."

When Faxon first learned of the great change that had come into Mollie's life so unexpectedly he looked anything but pleased.

"So, dear, you now belong to another sphere," he observed, with a quickly repressed sigh, "or, perhaps, I should have said you have been restored to your proper sphere."

"Cliff," said Mollie reprovingly, but with a light on her face which expressed far more than her words, "I belong alone to you—your sphere will always be mine, unless—oh, you grand, aspiring fellow!—I am unable to keep up with you mentally as you climb the ladder of fame."

The young man's arms closed around her in a fond embrace, but a sudden contraction in his throat would not admit of his speaking for the moment. This little revelation of her great and absorbing love for him moved him deeply. Mollie observed it, and, flashing a sly, mischievous glance into his face, she demurely remarked:

"I'm very sorry, Cliff, if you are going to feel burdened to take me with the appendage that has been thrust upon me. Of course, you know I would rather have you than the fortune—love in the proverbial cottage with you than the whole world without you—but since I cannot get rid of the fortune, I don't see but that you will have to take me just as I am, be it for 'better or worse.'"

"Mollie! Mollie!" murmured Faxon, in a voice that almost made her weep—it was so intense from the emotion which nearly mastered him—"what a rare, sweet woman you are!"

He was silent for a moment, and then he resumed with more self-control.

"I dared to love you when you were 'Miss Heatherford the heiress,' but I should not have presumed to try to win you while you were rich and I was poor. I have been so glad and proud to have won you while we were on the same plane socially, and to feel that we love each other for just what we are. I have exulted in the thought that it would be my privilege to work for you, and, perchance, restore you to the position you once occupied; but since I am to be denied that I can only bend all my energies toward making my name one that you will be proud to bear by and by."

"I am already proud of it, dear," said Mollie, with beaming eyes, "but I shall be even more so when it becomes my own."

Clifford's answer to this loving tribute need not be recorded, but, judging from the sweet laugh which rippled over Mollie's lips, it was entirely satisfactory.

Immediately after Mr. Heatherford's removal to the Lamonti mansion, Mollie resolved to make one more desperate effort for his recovery and to spare no expense to put him under the most noted specialists for diseases of the brain that could be secured. After making diligent inquiries, she decided to send for Doctor ——, of New York, to come to Washington and diagnose her father's case. The great man came, but, after a careful and protracted examination, pronounced the fatal verdict, which she so dreaded to hear.

"Miss Heatherford, it pains me deeply to have to tell you that there is not the slightest ray of hope, as far as I can see," he said, and then lapsed into a learned description of the patient's condition, describing the state of his brain, the probable progress of the disease, and its inevitable termination, while Mollie felt as if she would herself become distracted before he concluded his terrible picture.

"Oh!" she cried at last, "then he must live on like this indefinitely, growing gradually more and more helpless! He is never to know anything more of life, never even give me, his only child, one fond word or look of recognition! How can I bear it?"

"My dear young lady, it is hard, I know," said the physician kindly, and deeply touched by the tearless grief, "and were it in my power to give you the least encouragement, I should be more than glad to do so. I have given you my opinion of the case as it appears to me," he went on after a moment of deep thought, "but if it would comfort you any to make one more trial, I will suggest that a noted Paris specialist, who is now in this country, be called to examine Mr. Heatherford. There is no higher authority in the world that I know of."

Mollie grasped eagerly at this straw, and the highest authority in the world, the great Paris doctor, was sent for at once. He came and went; but he left behind him only bitter disappointment and a sentence of doom.

Poor Mollie, who had hoped against hope, was utterly prostrated for a time in view of this ultimatum. She shut herself into her room to meet this terrible blow and fight her battle out where no eye could witness her anguish.

The fate to which her father had been doomed by the verdict of the doctors seemed absolutely unbearable, and she cried aloud in her anguish that she would not submit to it.

She was nearly worn out with this conflict by luncheon-time, two hours and more after the departure of the Paris authority, and was only able to drink a cup of tea when her maid brought a temptingly arranged tray to her; but she felt that she could not live through the afternoon, left alone with her own thoughts, and finally, ringing for Nannette, she ordered her to make Lucille ready for a drive, and half an hour later found them rolling out toward the Washington monument. They drove for nearly two hours, and then Mollie ordered the coachman to turn toward home.

As the carriage was passing through Fourteenth Street something caught Mollie's eye—something which made her sit suddenly erect, while a look of eager interest swept over her pale, lovely face. The object which had attracted her attention was a very modest sign hanging in a window.

It read thus: "John L. Freeman, Christian Science Healer," and into the girl's mind flashed the thought, accompanied by a wild hope: "Perhaps that man can help my father—I have heard that Christian Scientists do wonderful things."

Almost before she was aware of what she was doing, she had ordered the driver to stop, when, taking Lucille by the hand, she alighted, mounted the steps, and rang the bell of the house where Mr. Freeman resided.

Then, as the tinkle of the bell came to her ears, she suddenly began to feel ashamed of her errand, for she had always been both skeptical and intolerant of all such "metaphysical nonsense," as she had termed it.

She was half-tempted to beat a hasty retreat, and perhaps would have done so if the door had not been opened at that instant by a sweet, happy-looking girl, whose winning smile at once won her confidence and inspired her with fresh hope.

"Can I see Mr. Freeman?" she briefly inquired.

"I think so; come in, please," replied the girl, and, turning, she led the way into a pleasant room, where a gentleman of perhaps forty years was sitting.

He arose and greeted Mollie with easy courtesy, his dark eyes searching her face with a kind but penetrating look, and instantly a strange feeling of peace fell upon her aching, rebellious heart. She took the chair he offered her, and then opened her heart to him, telling him all her trouble and sorrow—of her father's long illness, of the many weary months of anxious care and hopeless seeking after help from various sources, and of her last despairing efforts and their result. The gentleman did not once interrupt her, but sat with downcast eyes and attentive mien until she concluded, when she tremulously inquired:

"Can you help him—is there any hope, do you think?"

"My dear child, there is every hope," her companion confidently replied. "God is always a help in time of trouble."

"God!" repeated Mollie, with a bitter inflection. "I have begun to believe there is no God."

The gentleman bent a pitiful glance upon her.

"I am sure that you will never say that again," he replied after a moment of silence.

Then he asked her a few questions, after which he remarked that he would take the case if she desired, and would visit her father later in the day.

Mollie arose, a peculiar feeling of restfulness and hope having succeeded her previous weariness and despair; and, opening her purse, inquired what she should pay for the consultation.

"Nothing for our little talk, Miss Heatherford," said Mr. Freeman, with a quiet smile; "we are always glad to have people come to us when in trouble. Scientists, when they take patients, usually treat them by the week, the sum being uniform, unless frequent visits are required; of course, you understand that no medicines—no remedies of any kind—are to be used."

He then mentioned the amount for a week's treatment, and which seemed to the wondering girl exceedingly paltry; but she paid it, and then went away with that same strange, sweet peace still pervading her.

A week passed, and while there was no apparent change in Mr. Heatherford's mental condition, he was not nearly as restless as he had been, and slept quietly the whole night through, a thing he had not done for months.

The second week he began to take more nourishment. At the end of a month his face began to have some color, and Eliza declared that he was actually gaining flesh, while now and then they found him looking about the room, vacantly, to be sure, and yet with an air as if a dawning consciousness was trying to assert itself.

Mollie jealously watched every change, and each time that Mr. Freeman came she plied him with questions, eagerly seeking to learn something of the great principle that was governing her dear father's condition.

She read with avidity the books which the gentleman loaned her, and which taught her much, and gradually a joyous hope—an abiding confidence, rather—took possession of her, assuring her that her loved one would ere long be well again.

At the expiration of two months he had once spoken her name, and had began to try to use his hands to help himself; and finally there came a day when he actually stood upon his feet, with Eliza's strong arms around him to support him.

"Bress de Lord! I tole yo' to trust de Lord, honey," the woman exclaimed, her black face radiant with joy on this happy occasion.

"I know you did, Eliza; and at last I believe I am beginning to understand what and where God is," Mollie reverently replied, her golden lashes laden with tears of joy.

Early in May, when the weather began to be oppressive, she closed the house in Washington and took her family to the beautiful villa—one of Lucille's many possessions—at Cape May, where they remained all summer—five delightful, happy months, for the invalid improved with every day.

Faxon also spent his vacation—the month of August—there, each morning finding him early at the villa, where he and his betrothed vied with each other in making the time pass pleasantly for Mr. Heatherford, whose mind was fast becoming as clear and active as in the vigorous days of his youth.

He was still somewhat hampered physically, as the obstinate enemy, paralysis, had not been wholly conquered, although it was rapidly disappearing; but there was not a happier nor more grateful family in existence than Mollie's household, all of whom felt as if the dead had been restored to life.

Faxon returned to Washington the first of September, and a month later the Lamonti house was once more opened, and the family settled for the winter.

Mr. Heatherford was now practically well, and "prepared," he said, "to begin life over again."

Mollie, however, tried to persuade him not to think of business for a long while yet; there was no need, she asserted, for her income was ample for their every want. But Mr. Heatherford was eager to test his recovered powers, particularly as Mr. Freeman encouraged him to do so, and, having been educated for the bar, he soon made arrangements to go into business with an established firm, one of the partners proving to be an old-time friend who knew something of the reputation which Mr. Heatherford had borne during his more prosperous days; and now the future began to look very bright to him once more.

As the season advanced and distinguished people began to flock to the capital, he met many a former acquaintance, and thus it came about that both Mollie and her father were gradually drawn into society again.

When Mollie began to accept these courtesies and take her place once more in social life, she insisted that her engagement should be publicly announced, and so, of course, Clifford was always thereafter included in all invitations.

He was looking forward to a much brighter prospect in life after the first of January than he had dared to anticipate for himself thus early in his career, and it was arranged that his marriage should occur as soon as he was well settled in his new enterprise; meantime, as he was becoming quite a favorite in social circles, the young couple gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the present.

One evening, at a brilliant reception given by a distinguished senator, Mr. Heatherford and Mollie unexpectedly encountered Mr. and Mrs. Temple and Philip Wentworth, the family having come to Washington again for the winter. Mr. Temple had again become interested in politics during the last year or two, and had been elected a member of the House of Representatives, and was ambitious for still higher honors.

The meeting between Mr. Heatherford and Mr. Temple was somewhat startling to both gentlemen, especially so to the latter, since he believed the former to be still a hopeless paralytic, if, indeed, he were yet on the earth. They met in the great hall of the mansion where they were guests.

A slight smile of contempt flitted over Mr. Heatherford's face as he said: "Ah! Temple; so we meet again!"

"My God! Heatherford!" gasped the man who had so bitterly wronged him under the guise of friendship; and he was colorless even to his lips.

"Yes; you were not expecting to meet me again—here," returned Mr. Heatherford.

"It—it is a miracle! Who was your doctor?" panted the false friend, scarce knowing what he said.

"God," briefly but reverently responded Heatherford. Then, with a courtly but distant bow, he added: "Excuse me; I am looking for my daughter."

He passed on, leaving the other still staring blankly after him, and actually trembling, as if he had suddenly encountered a ghost of the past—as, indeed, he had.

Later in the evening Mollie found herself standing almost side by side with Philip Wentworth. She was richly and beautifully clad. Her dress was a gauzelike material of black, made over a very light-gray satin that gleamed like silver underneath. The trimmings were all of silver, and a diamond spray, with a silver aigrette, gleamed in her hair.

The corsage of her robe was cut modestly low, and the full, puffed sleeves were short, thus revealing her perfect arms and neck, which were like chiseled marble. It was a strikingly effective costume, and just suited her, for it threw out the fairness of her faultless complexion to great advantage.

She gave a slight start as she caught Philip's voice and realized his proximity, but did not glance at him. She turned slightly away, and was about to address a lady whom she knew; but before she could do so, Philip stepped directly in front of her, determined that he would not be ignored.

"You have told me never to speak to you again—that we are strangers," he began in a low tone that was husky with emotion; "cannot you forgive and forget? I have suffered bitterly for my folly of that night—I have repented in sackcloth and ashes."

Not a muscle of Mollie's face moved during his speech. She stood and looked like a statue—beautiful as a young goddess—but cold as snow, and a feeling of bitter remorse—of utter despair crept over him as he realized how he had lowered himself in her estimation and lost all chance of ever winning her.

Since learning of Mr. Lamonti's will and that Mollie had now an independent fortune, and would once more take an enviable position in society, he had cursed himself a thousand times for his past folly. While he was speaking Mollie was wondering how she could escape him without replying to him and without making herself conspicuous.

There was an awkward pause for a moment after he concluded; then Mollie's quick ear caught the voice of her hostess, who was just behind her, remarking:

"No, I have not seen Mr. Wentworth since he first entered the room; but I am sure he is still here."

Mollie turned gracefully toward the speaker, thus revealing Philip to her.

"You were inquiring for Mr. Wentworth, Mrs. Blackman," she observed, with a charming smile. "Behold him just at hand!"

Then, with a bow to the lady, she slipped away, leaving Philip in a white heat of rage and disappointment over having failed to win even a glance of recognition from her.

But Mollie escaped Philip only to run almost into the arms of Mrs. Temple, who also had already arrived at the conclusion that the girl's acquaintance was worth cultivating again. Mollie Heatherford, with a handsome fortune in her own right, was an entirely different person from the poverty-stricken private secretary of a year ago. She extended her hand with a beaming smile, and greeted her with much of her former maternal fondness.

Mollie's quiet "good evening, Mrs. Temple," together with the ceremonious touch of her finger-tips, was something of a facer; but the shrewd woman of the world was not one to easily relinquish a project, and she continued in her most cordial tone:

"Really, Mollie, it seems like old times to meet you in society again; and what a romantic experience you have had! I assure you, no one could be more delighted than we were when we learned of your good fortune. Are you back in the Lamonti house again this season?"

"Yes," Mollie briefly replied.

"I understand that it is very elegant—that Mr. Lamonti was exceedingly refined in his tastes, and made his home a perfect gem," Mrs. Temple continued, and determined to trap Mollie into asking her to call if it were possible.

"Yes," the fair girl again composedly replied, "Monsieur Lamonti spared no expense to make his home attractive, and took great pride and pleasure in gathering treasures from all parts of the world to beautify it."

"I have been told that many of the paintings are from the hands of the best masters," pursued her inquisitor.

"That is true."

"Do you ever entertain as you used to in the old days in New York, Mollie?"

"We have not as yet; it is quite early in the season, you know," said Mollie, and barely able to suppress a smile as she saw the drift of these questions; "but papa and I were talking the matter over recently, and I think we may have a regular reception evening later on."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Temple eagerly; "then you will be well launched upon the sea of Washington society, and if at any time you should feel the need of some one to matronize your affairs, you will know where to come, dear," she concluded, with her most affable smile.

"Thank you, Mrs. Temple."

"And I wish you would drop in upon us occasionally," the lady went on appealingly, but flushing slightly over the failure of her scheme. "We were all very fond of you always, Mollie, and Minnie would be delighted to see her old friend."

"Yes, Minnie and I were close friends; give my love to the dear child," Mollie replied, with more of heartiness than she had yet expressed. Then, catching sight of Mr. Heatherford, she added: "Excuse me, but I see papa looking for me. Good-night, Mrs. Temple."

And with a graceful inclination of her bright head she glided away. Mrs. Temple's face was a study as she watched the slight, perfect figure move down the room. She had been utterly baffled, and she was filled with mingled disappointment and mortification.

"Mollie is very shrewd, with all her sweetness," she muttered, with a frown; "she can hold her own anywhere, and we have all made a grand mistake."