The Heatherford Fortune
A SEQUEL TO THE MAGIC CAMEO By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

AUTHOR OF

"Tina," "The Lily of Mordaunt," "Mona,"
"Little Miss Whirlwind," etc.

A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York

Popular Books

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

In Handsome Cloth Binding

Price per Volume, 60 Cents

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A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
52 Duane Street New York

Copyright, 1898 and 1899 By Street & Smith

THE HEATHERFORD FORTUNE

CONTENTS

The Heatherford Fortune.

A Sequel To "The Magic Cameo."

CHAPTER I.
MOLLIE FINDS A FRIEND.

Mollie Heatherford had thought no more of her brave act, by which, at the risk of her life, she had saved the child Lucille from being trampled to death under the hoofs of the pawing horses.

The next morning she was greatly surprised to receive a letter from a gentleman—Monsieur Jules Lamonti, by name—who said he was the grandfather of little Lucille, and who, after expressing his gratitude in most heartfelt terms, requested permission to call upon her at her earliest convenience.

The missive was written in French, and evidently by a highly cultured gentleman, and Mollie felt that it would only be courteous to grant the interview so earnestly solicited. She accordingly responded immediately, and named an hour of the following morning for Monsieur Lamonti to call, if the time should be convenient for him.

She was somewhat disappointed that he did not keep the appointment, but the next day, at the specified hour, a magnificent equipage, with coachman and footman in cream-colored liveries, dashed to the door and stopped.

Presently an elderly gentleman, of apparently sixty years, with snow-white hair and beard, his somewhat bowed and attenuated form clad in the finest of garments, alighted. He was a trifle lame, and depended, in a measure, upon a cane which, Mollie observed, had a massive gold head, curiously carved.

Eliza answered his ring and admitted him to the small parlor, then took the visitor's card, bearing the name "M. Jules Lamonti," to her young mistress.

Mollie did not keep her caller waiting, to make any change in her toilet, for she made it a point to be always neatly, if simply, clad; and, entering his presence with perfect composure, greeted him with a charming ease and grace of manner.

She saw at a glance that he was an aristocrat; but that did not disturb her in the least.

He bowed low before her as he responded to her greeting; then, in a voice that was tremulous from deep emotion, he observed in very fair English:

"Mademoiselle Heatherford has laid on me an obligation everlasting. Ah! but my poor heart would have been broken if I the little one had lost."

Mollie, realizing that it would be much easier for him to express himself in his own language, responded in purest of French, disclaiming all thought of obligation, and concluded by inquiring if little Lucille had experienced any ill effects from her accident. The Frenchman was delighted to find that his hostess could converse with him in his mother-tongue, and his face beamed with pleasure.

"You speak French, mademoiselle!" he exclaimed. "Ah! that is delightful! Now we will talk without any difficulty, for I mix your language so badly. No, Lucille was not hurt. She is perfectly well, and as bright as the morning. But, Mon Dieu! I tremble when I think what might have been to-day but for you," he interposed, growing so white that Mollie was startled. "It was very brave, Mademoiselle Heatherford—it was grand! They tell me you went straight in under that powerful, frightened brute to save my precious child. You are a heroine, mademoiselle, and now I have come to ask you what I shall do to prove my everlasting gratitude."

Mollie flushed and smiled as he called her a "heroine." The word always thrilled her—as she once told her father. It was like a strain of music in her ears.

"Please, monsieur, do not speak of any return for what was simply a humane act," she gently returned; "I am more than recompensed in knowing that your dear little grandchild escaped unhurt. And how is poor Nannette to-day? She was greatly frightened and distressed, and I felt very sorry for her."

A frown darkened Monsieur Lamonti's face, and his eyes flashed with sudden anger at the mention of the bonne.

"Nannette shall go away—I will not trust my beautiful one with her ever again," he said sternly. "Ah! if she had been killed! Mon Dieu! I tell you I could not have survived; she is all I have, mademoiselle, the only child of my only daughter—ah! but I cannot talk of it," he concluded brokenly, and trembling visibly.

"But, monsieur, it is all over—she is safe, and let us rejoice that all is well," soothingly replied Mollie. "And I am sure," she added confidently, "that Nannette will be very careful in the future. This will be a lesson to her, and I would have far more confidence in her now than in a strange maid. She seemed like a good girl and very fond of the little one, while she bewailed her carelessness with sincere sorrow."

"There is truth in what you say," the gentleman returned, after a moment of thought. "Nannette has been a good girl—she is faithful, as a rule, and Lucille loves her. I shall consider what you have said, mademoiselle, and Nannette will have cause to be grateful to you."

"Thank you. I should feel sorry to have her lose her situation; at the same time I can understand your anxiety, and she should be required to promise to be very careful in the future."

Mollie and her caller drifted to other subjects after that and chatted of many things—of Europe in general, of Paris in particular. Monsieur Lamonti was charmed with the beautiful girl, while she was no less delighted with his courtly manner, his culture and brilliant conversation, and was sincerely sorry when he arose to take his leave.

"Adieu, mademoiselle," he said, holding out his slim, aristocratic hand; "it is a great pleasure to have met you—you know my country so well; you speak my language so beautifully; while, for yesterday, I shall always cherish you in most grateful remembrance. Ah! but to me that is like sounding brass," he interposed, with a dissatisfied shrug of his shoulders and in a regretful tone. Then, as his keen eyes swept the graceful figure in its simple cambric dress, he added: "Is mademoiselle sure that I cannot serve her in any way?"

Mollie glanced up quickly at him, as a thought suddenly flashed through her mind, and a bright flush suffused her face as she asked herself if she dare put the thought into words. There was something his expressive face, in the sincerity of his speech and his refinement and courtesy, that inspired her with confidence in him.

"Monsieur, there is one way in which, possibly, you might aid me," she began, with some reluctance.

"Name it, mademoiselle!—by all means name it!" Monsieur Lamonti eagerly interposed.

"To do that I shall have to open my heart to you a little," Mollie continued, with a slight quiver of her sweet lips.

"Ah! mademoiselle honors me," said the gentleman, with a grave and courteous bow.

"Monsieur," the fair girl resumed, flushing again, but with her lovely eyes steadfastly gazing into his, for she had no false shame on account of her poverty, "I have recently been reduced to the necessity of supporting myself and my father, who is a hopeless invalid; but I am unable to obtain a position. If monsieur could assist me in this respect, I should be very grateful, for the need is urgent."

Her companion regarded her with admiration. She looked like a young queen, in spite of her surroundings and the simplicity of her apparel. Her face was grave and sweet, but strong with the noble purpose that animated her; her shining hair was like a coronet of gold above her brow, and she bore herself with a quiet dignity and air of self-respect that must have commanded the esteem of any one.

"And what is mademoiselle fitted for—what is the position which she would like best of all?" Monsieur Lamonti inquired.

"I hardly know," Mollie thoughtfully returned. "I have a good education, and I could teach, if I could find an opening. As you perceive, I can speak French."

"Mademoiselle's accent is perfect," interposed her listener.

"I am equally familiar with German," she resumed, with an appreciative smile at his compliment; "I studied in Heidelberg two years, and there are some other branches which I think I may truthfully say I am competent to teach."

The man was silent for a moment or two after she ceased, evidently considering some thought which had suggested itself to him. Then he broke forth with the characteristic impulse of his nationality:

"Ah! to teach—it is a slave's life!" he said. "The nerves they cannot bear it, unless indeed mademoiselle has nerves of steel. I tell her what she shall do. I know exactly the position and it is for mademoiselle's acceptance if it meets her approval. She speaks French like the native of Paris; would she take the place of a private secretary, to write four hours a day for a French gentleman?"

Mollie's heart leaped with joy at such a prospect. It seemed very inviting, particularly the "four hours a day," which would leave her much time to be with her dear sick one. But was she competent? That was a question that seemed important, and for the moment she did not know what to say.

"Mademoiselle hesitates, and she is quite right," said her companion, coming to the rescue. "I will explain: The gentleman's secretary was discharged three days ago for betraying the affairs of his employer, who not yet has been able to find another to take his place, and the correspondence is piling up with every mail. It is important that the letters should be answered. Mademoiselle speaks and writes German also? Good! There will be German correspondence, too. The remuneration has been four hundred and fifty francs—or ninety dollars of American money—monthly. Will Mademoiselle consider the offer?" he concluded with some eagerness.

"It is certainly very tempting," Mollie smilingly replied, and with rapidly beating pulses, "and I should not hesitate an instant if——"

"Well?"

"If I was sure I could fill the position acceptably and the gentleman is willing to substitute a woman for the clerk who has hitherto served him."

"The latter doubt is easily dispelled, Mademoiselle, since I myself am the anxious seeker for a trustworthy secretary. Regarding the ability, a few days' trial will settle that point, and the requirements are perfect and fluent French and German, and fidelity to the employer's interests. I shall be pleased if Mademoiselle will come for a week and try."

"Monsieur Lamonti, I will, and I thank you more than I can express; for this offer is very opportune, I assure you," said Mollie, her lips trembling in spite of her efforts at self-control. "I will gladly make the trial, and I will certainly do my best to please you in every way."

"And when will Mademoiselle oblige me by beginning her duties?" queried Monsieur Lamonti.

"I am sure, from what you have said, that I am needed at once, and I will come to-morrow at any hour which you may choose to name," Mollie replied.

"And that is considerate," returned the gentleman in a gratified tone. "Then at nine, if that will not inconvenience Mademoiselle, and the address she will find here."

He drew a card-case from his pocket and presented her a card which had his business address upon it. Then bidding her a courteous "au revoir," he bowed himself out with as much ceremony as if he were leaving a drawing-room, and a moment later his elegant equipage was rolling rapidly down the street, while Mollie still stood in the middle of the room, wondering if the interview had not been all a dream.

She could scarcely credit the evidence of her senses. Ninety dollars a month! It seemed too good to be true, and like a smile from fortune to her, when, of late, she had been so anxiously counting even her pennies. A great burden rolled from her heart and a luminous smile illumed her face, although there were tears in her eyes.

"At last," she murmured, "I am to know what it means to be of some practical use in the world, and I will do my very best."

CHAPTER II.
MOLLIE A BREAD-WINNER.

It was a strange experience for this hitherto delicately nurtured girl to go out into the world and work to support herself and her father, who had always so watchfully shielded her from every care; who had scarce allowed her to express a wish before it was gratified, and almost surfeited her with the luxuries of life.

But she met it bravely. She did not once say to herself that it was a hardship—she did not even feel it to be such. The heroic element was strong in her nature, and it showed itself grandly now in this emergency.

The one thing that did seem hard and cruel to her was the fact that her dear father was beyond realizing her good fortune and sympathizing with her in her joy that a future of comparative comfort was assured them, if she should prove herself competent to retain the position which Monsieur Lamonti had offered her. She did not feel much doubt upon this point, for she was sure that he would be very considerate until she became accustomed to her duties, and she was determined to master every difficulty and acquit herself with satisfaction.

She presented herself in his office a few minutes before nine o'clock the next morning and found him awaiting her. He received her with all the courtesy which characterized his manner toward her the previous day in her own home.

"Mademoiselle is prompt; that is well," he smilingly observed, "and now, if you please, we will attend directly to business, for it is urgent."

He pointed to several piles of letters, lying unopened upon a desk, and Mollie slipped into the chair before it and prepared to give her undivided attention to his instructions.

He selected several epistles which demanded immediate replies, and, after clearly explaining what her duty would be, left her to do the work. Her task was not difficult. Monsieur Lamonti possessed the faculty of being clear and concise in his directions, and with her natural fluency of diction, her thorough knowledge of both French and German, she found everything moving along very smoothly.

The hours slipped swiftly by, and Mollie was greatly surprised when the clock on the desk above her struck one, and Monsieur Lamonti, glancing up at the sound, observed:

"That will be all for to-day, Mademoiselle Heatherford, and everything has been most satisfactory. Allow me to add that I regard myself as very fortunate in securing such a helper."

"Thank you, monsieur," replied Mollie gratefully. Then she added as she glanced at the numerous missives still unopened upon both desks: "Pray let me work another hour; I am not in the least weary."

"But your luncheon, Mademoiselle," said the gentleman in a doubtful tone.

"I am not in the least hungry, either," said the fair girl, smiling. "I seldom lunch before half-past one, and I shall not mind waiting thirty minutes longer; while I am sure there is work here which is equally as important as what I have already done."

"Mademoiselle is right," returned monsieur, his thoughtful glance following hers, "but this is your first day and you should not be overtaxed."

"Do not fear; I have not thought of being tired, and it will give me pleasure to work another hour and continue to do so every day until the ordinary routine of business is attained."

She spoke with so much of sincerity, even eagerness, that Monsieur Lamonti accepted the offer in the same spirit that it was made. At the end of the hour Mollie was politely dismissed, and went home with a light heart and with a feeling of importance that was as delightful as it was novel.

Every morning, promptly at nine o'clock, found her at her desk, where for five hours she worked patiently and industriously for a week, when Monsieur Lamonti informed her that his business had been reduced to its normal condition, and there would be no more extra hours required.

It was a proud moment for the beautiful girl when, as she was about to leave the office, that gentleman handed her a check for the first money she had ever earned in her life. She thanked him with a smile and flush of pleasure; then, as she glanced at it and saw the amount, she started slightly and exclaimed:

"But monsieur! this is too much; you have made a mistake."

"Pardon, mademoiselle; there is no mistake," quietly returned her companion. "The check is for twenty-six dollars, is it not?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Very good. The agreement was that mademoiselle should work four hours a day for ninety dollars per month; but she has labored one extra hour every day during this week, which calls for extra remuneration, and—as near as can be estimated—the amount which the check represents," Mr. Lamonti explained.

"But, monsieur, I never thought—I did not intend——" Mollie faltered in some confusion.

"Very true—I understand," said the gentleman, smiling kindly into the lovely face; "but it is only just compensation, and you will oblige me by making no objection to it. I am also exceedingly obliged for the accommodation and well pleased with your services. We shall go on very nicely for the future."

This was a delightful surprise, and she felt highly elated as she ran about, before going home, to settle some small bills which she had been obliged to contract, and to purchase a few luxuries for the invalid.

As the weeks slipped by she became deeply interested in her work, and had her father been well she would have been perfectly happy, for she felt that she had now a more worthy object in life than that of living for her own amusement and the demands of fashionable society, as heretofore.

She entertained a profound respect for Monsieur Lamonti, who was invariably courteous and considerate, and never appeared to be ruffled in the slightest degree, no matter how perplexing his business might be.

She gradually learned considerable of his history, as from time to time he referred to his past, and ascertained that his life had been full of romance and sorrow.

He belonged to a noble family of France, but had incurred the lasting displeasure of his relatives by marrying contrary to their wishes and was disinherited in consequence. But he loved his beautiful girl-wife with all the strength of his manhood, and preferred exile and poverty a thousand times with her, to fame and fortune without her.

They had retired to a quiet little village immediately after their marriage, and where, with a little money, together with unlimited energy and perseverance, Monsieur Lamonti had perfected an invention which ere long brought him large returns in sales and royalties, and at the end of fifteen years he was the possessor of a large fortune.

Then his wife was suddenly taken from him, leaving him with a lovely daughter, fourteen years of age, and who now became all-in-all to his almost broken heart.

Wishing her to profit by the very best education which his country afforded and her future position would demand, he transferred his residence to Paris,where he remained for the ten succeeding years, and where his daughter married a worthy young man, of whom he heartily approved.

Her child, the little Lucille, was born a year later, and she was only a few months old when her mother's health began to fail and she was ordered to Italy for change of scene and climate. She was accompanied by her husband, but the child was left behind with Monsieur Lamonti and in the care of an efficient nurse.

Two months later, both father and mother were drowned during a terrible gale while on a yachting excursion in the Mediteranean, and this tragic event and terrible affliction nearly deprived him of his mind for a time and aged him many years in appearance. But from that time all his thought and affection was centered in his granddaughter, who was a bright and promising child, and who, eventually, if she lived, would become sole heiress to his immense fortune.

When she was a year old certain interests connected with his invention demanded Monsieur Lamonti's presence in America, while, during the last few years, having become somewhat prominent in matters of a political nature, he was elected a sort of charge d'affaires to conduct certain negotiations of a delicate nature in this country, and which would require the exercise of tact, judgment, and diplomacy.

He had accepted the commission, more for the sake of having plenty to occupy his mind and prevent him from dwelling upon his many sorrows, than because he desired public office and emolument, hence his presence in the nation's capital, where he had resided during the last two years.

"Thus you will understand, mademoiselle," he had observed to Mollie with a heavy sigh, when telling her something of his life, "how utterly desolate I should have been to-day, if you had not so bravely risked your life to save my little Lucille. The world would hold nothing for me if I were to lose her—she is the one link that now holds me here—that makes me prize in the least a life that has been full of sorrow. See!" he interposed, touching the silvery locks above his temples. "I am not yet quite fifty years of age, and any one would declare that I am more than sixty."

It was all very sad, Mollie thought—there were many sad and incomprehensible things in life that were forcing themselves more and more upon her observation of late, and she could not be reconciled to them. If she could have known how she cheered the sorrow-burdened man with her sweet and sunny presence—how like a ray of bright, warm sunshine she seemed, whenever she appeared in his office, and that her voice was, like Lucille's, as inspiring and soothing to him as a strain of sweetest music, she would have been very happy.

He frequently brought the child to the office, to make a little call upon her, and the two soon began to grow very fond of each other. Then, too, Monsieur Lamonti would often call for her in the afternoon to go for a drive with them, and, upon several occasions, he had invited her to be present when he made a small fete for his granddaughter, to assist in entertaining the children, since he had no mistress in his home to manage such festivities, and he had learned that she dearly loved little ones. At such times he exerted himself to make the occasion pleasant for her in other ways—by showing her works of art and numerous curios which he had gathered from various portions of the world by playing various instruments, for he was very talented in music and could play the organ, harp, piano, and violin with more skill than many a professional while he could talk of masters and artists, giving their history and merits, with a fluency which proved him thoroughly posted in such matters. He was also very thoughtful for Mr. Heatherford, often sending his carriage to take him out for an airing, the coachman and footman being instructed to show him every attention while wines, fruits, and other delicacies for him mysteriously found their way into Eliza's domains.

He also had learned much of the girl's past, previous to her misfortunes; he studied her from day to day and learned to reverence the strength of character and purity of purpose which were apparent in her every act, and thus there grew up a strong and abiding friendship between the fair young girl and the courtly Frenchman.

One morning Mollie started forth, at the usual hour, to go to the office, and for some reason she seemed brighter and happier than common. She was in perfect health, there was an exquisite color in her cheeks, her lips were like holly berries, and her eyes glowed with the hope and vigor that belonged to her young life.

She was clad in a golden-brown broadcloth costume, trimmed with narrow bands of sable fur. It was one of the last dresses she had bought in Paris, recently made over by a clever modiste—whom she had discovered near her—and it fitted her exquisitely, showing her finely proportioned figure to good advantage. Her hat matched her suit in color and was brightened by the wing of a Baltimore oriole. In her well-gloved hands she carried a rich, but modest pocketbook—another relic of the past, and no one would have dreamed, as this stylish and elegantly clad young woman stepped upon the street-car on her way to Monsieur Lamonti's office, that she was working for her daily bread.

She might have passed for the wife or daughter of some senator or other distinguished official—although it was rather an early hour for the elite to be abroad—and many an admiring eye lingered upon her bright beauty.

In the car her eye was attracted by a gentleman who was standing near her. He was clinging to a strap overhead, and as Mollie's glance swept over him and upward, along his arm to the hand above, her heart gave a great startled bound, her cheeks flushed a vivid scarlet, and her eyes darkened until they seemed almost black.

CHAPTER III.
MOLLIE MEETS HER HERO.

The gentleman who had attracted Mollie's attention was above the medium height, broad-shouldered, erect, and with a fine, well-poised head which was covered with dark-brown hair. He was nicely, though not richly clad, although he looked the gentleman, every inch, while his bearing was as quietly dignified and self-possessed as if he had been the possessor of millions.

He was standing with his back toward Mollie, and she could not see his face, thus he was utterly unconscious of the beautiful eyes that were resting upon him and also of the commotion which he had roused in the heart of the possessor of those same lovely eyes.

It was not the stalwart figure, nor the proud, nobly formed head, which had especially attracted her attention. It was the strong and shapely hand that was firmly grasping the strap above him and upon the little finger of which he wore an exquisitely cut cameo ring.

Mollie had recognized it instantly—she would have known it anywhere, for it was the ring which she had given to Clifford Faxon, six years previous, when, acting upon the impulse of the moment, she had sought him out at New Haven to thank him, individually, for the lives he had saved when, though only a farmer's bound boy, he had prevented a terrible railroad wreck.

Again, as on that occasion, she was strangely thrilled by his presence, even though he was unconscious of her own.

How she wished that he would turn his head so that she could obtain a view of his face! She knew, well enough, that it was in keeping with the splendid form before her and with what she knew of the character of the man, but she wanted to see if she could trace familiar lines in it; if it still wore the same frank, honest expression of six years ago; if the magnificent brown eyes still retained their clear, earnest, straightforward glance; if the lips wore the same genial smile. Then she found herself wondering if he would remember her, or whether she had changed so much that he would merely glance indifferently at her and then pass her like any stranger. What right had she to think he would recognize her? she mentally questioned with an impatient shrug of her shoulders, the flush deepening again upon her cheeks.

She had been only a miss in short dresses and one among the hundreds who had been eager to honor him upon that occasion—to grasp him by the hand and shower grateful thanks upon him. True she had given him the ring as a souvenir, and told him she should love him all her life for what he had done—how her face burned as she recalled those impulsive words—but he had received from others what had doubtless proved to be a far more useful and practical gift—the generous purse of money.

But why did he wear the ring if he treasured no pleasant memory of the giver? This thought set her heart to fluttering again in a way that was highly foreign to the usual self-possession of the recent society belle, but it was quickly followed by the somewhat mortifying reflection that the cameo was a valuable and unique affair and quite a treasure of art to possess.

Every pulse thrilled anew when, as she signaled the conductor to stop, she observed the young man preceding her, as if he also was about to alight. Mollie followed closely, hoping that she might be fortunate enough to get a view of his face.

He stepped off the car, and paused to wait for it to pass on, before crossing the street, as was evidently his intention.

Mollie, with her thoughts full of the past, in which he had figured so conspicuously, was a little heedless as she alighted, her foot turning awkwardly, and she would have fallen if her "hero" had not sprung to her side, and, with a courteous, "allow me," grasped her arm and saved her from what might have been a painful accident.

"Thank you very much," she said with a brilliant smile and blush, as she recovered herself, and lifted her gleaming eyes to the handsome face which she had so longed to see.

The young man started at the sound of her voice, and then bent an earnest look upon her, an expression of perplexity sweeping over his features. Then, almost instantly, his countenance cleared, a glad, eager light leaped into his eyes, which Mollie saw were unchanged, and there was a repressed thrill of triumph in his tones as he earnestly observed:

"I hope you are not hurt."

"Not in the least, I assure you, and I owe it to your timely aid," Mollie returned, an answering ring of joy in her own voice, as she saw that he remembered her, in spite of the changes time had made in her.

But, even though she realized that he was lingering with the hope that she would make the first advances and reference to their former meeting, as certainly belonged to her to do, a sudden and unaccountable shyness seized her. She stooped to brush some dust that had adhered to her skirt, then, with another smile and bow, she entered Monsieur Lamonti's office. A moment later she bitterly repented having allowed the precious opportunity to pass unimproved.

"Why," she mentally exclaimed, with a sense of scorn for herself. "I acted just like a bashful schoolgirl, and ought to be ashamed of myself. It was my place, when I saw that he knew me, to recognize him. How unappreciative and indifferent he must think me—how ill-mannered, when I told him that day that I should never forget him. I am more sorry than I can express, for perhaps he is in Washington only for a few days, and I may never meet him again. How utterly stupid of me!"

But in spite of these keen regrets, the girl's heart was unusually light all day, for the "hero" of her girlhood had more than fulfilled her anticipations; she had realized, during those few months, when they had stood face to face, that he was strong and true and manly in the highest acceptation of the terms; she believed that he was destined to distinguish himself in the future, but what made her especially happy was the fact that he had not forgotten her—that he had been glad to meet her again, as both his look and tone had testified.

With these reflections came the sudden revelation of her exact attitude toward Philip Wentworth. The contrast between the two young men was marked and suggestive. Phil was the pleasure-loving man of the world, living only for what entertainment he could extract from life and society. Clifford Faxon was the thoughtful, conscientious worker, with some high and earnest purpose in view that would not only promote his own individual interests, but also advance the standard of men and methods in general, and Mollie now saw that she had never even been in danger of loving Phil—that he was hardly worthy of even her respect, and she almost scorned herself for having hesitated an instant when he had declared his love for her, a little more than a year ago, during her visit in Brookline.

She had never seen him since leaving Boston, although he had often asserted that he was "coming to Washington." His letters had been growing few and far between, each one colder and more formal in its tone. Not once had he renewed his protestations of love for her, although there was a vein of assumption—a kind of taken-for-granted style in his epistles which might be interpreted to mean much or nothing; there certainly had been nothing tangible in them, and it had been several months now since she last heard from him. But had he remained as true as the needle to the pole, she knew now that she never could have married him after this meeting with Clifford Faxon.

"Oh, any one can see that he is head and shoulders above Phil, mentally, morally, and, almost that, physically," she mused, as she recalled Cliff's splendid physique, his thoughtful face and earnest eyes. "I hope I shall meet him again some day," and the sigh that supplemented this reflection told how deeply she regretted the lost opportunity of the morning.

Clifford Faxon himself was fully as much exercised in view of the unexpected meeting and its unsatisfactory results. He had not observed Mollie particularly at first, except that he had realized that some one had made a misstep, and almost involuntarily he had tried to avert an accident; but the instant she spoke, her tones had betrayed her to him—he had never forgotten them. Many and many a time in his dreams, both waking and sleeping, he had seemed to hear her silvery voice vibrating with its thrill of fervent gratitude in those words so indelibly stamped upon his heart: "You have saved my life—you have saved all our lives, and it is such a wonderful—such a grand thing to have done! I am very grateful to you, for my life is very bright. I love to live. Oh, I cannot say half there is in my heart; but I shall never forget you—I shall love you for your heroism of this day always."

Then, as he had studied the lovely face, he had traced the well-remembered features, even though she had changed and bloomed from the slip of a girl in short dresses and with that shining braid of hair hanging between her shoulders, into this beautiful and stylish young woman, with her perfect form, her queenly carriage and elegant apparel.

He saw that she had recognized him, for he had been quick to note the light that had leaped into her eyes and the conscious flush that had suffused her face, and, though he was disappointed, he was half-inclined to believe what was really the truth, that a sudden shyness, produced by the unexpected encounter, had alone caused her to refrain from referring to their former meeting, and yet, believing her to be still the petted child of fortune and far above him, socially, his sensitiveness suggested that she might not now care to renew their acquaintance—if such it could be called—in spite of her assurance that she should "never forget him."

He also had been in Washington for more than a year. He had come, as he had told Maria Kimberly he contemplated doing, with Mr. Hamilton, who had opened the —— House the first of that season. He had served him for nearly a year, and then, through the influence of some gentlemen who were guests in the hotel, he had secured a government position, and was proving himself so efficient he bade fair to rise still higher in the service of the nation.

It is rather remarkable that he and Mollie should never have met before during all this time; but it was one of those happenings which can never be accounted for.

And even though they had at last encountered each other, he experienced the same perplexity that Mollie had felt, not knowing whether she was there merely for a few days, as a sightseer, and would immediately float away again beyond his reach, or whether her father had some official position and was residing in the city. It was all very tantalizing, especially the fact that he did not even know her name. He had often heard Mrs. Temple call her Mollie, and Philip Wentworth had refused to tell him anything about her, except to boast that she was his fiancée.

Then, as these memories crowded upon him, he caught his breath sharply as a sudden, terrible fear took possession of him. Possibly this fair Mollie, this gloriously beautiful girl, who was his ideal of all that was perfect in womanhood, might already be Philip's wife, for only a day or two previous the Temples had passed him on the street in their carriage, and his former classmate was with them.

When Mollie entered the office that morning she found it empty, Monsieur Lamonti not having arrived, although he was almost invariably there before her. He came a few moments later, however, but appeared sad and preoccupied, and upon Mollie inquiring if he were ill he said no, but that Lucille was far from well. She had been feverish and restless all night. He had called a physician that morning, but he spoke lightly, saying that her indisposition was only the effect of a slight cold, and she would be all right in a day or two.

But the gentleman was evidently very much disturbed, and finally confessed to Mollie that he would be obliged to go to New York that afternoon, and could not return until the next evening. The approaching separation and suspense, he said, seemed almost unbearable, particularly as Lucille was ill.

"I know that Nannette is, as a rule, careful and faithful," he observed, "but somehow I feel very reluctant to leave the child alone with her."

Mollie turned to him eagerly.

"Monsieur, would you feel more comfortable if I should go and remain with Lucille and Nannette until you return?" she inquired.

The man's face cleared instantly at the suggestion.

"Would you be so good, mademoiselle?" he asked in a relieved tone. "Could you be spared from your father?"

"Oh, yes; Eliza can do everything necessary for papa, and I will gladly stay with Lucille," Mollie replied.

Monsieur Lamonti accepted her offer most gratefully, upon this assurance, and when his carriage came to him he drove home with her to tell Eliza what her plans were, after which they repaired to his residence.

They found Lucille much better than she had been in the morning, and Monsieur Lamonti prepared for his journey with restored cheerfulness, and finally took his departure, feeling quite content.

Mollie took Lucille wholly in charge for the remainder of the day, and allowed Nannette, who had been closely confined within doors, to have a little time to herself, and she went out to visit and take tea with a friend.

She returned about nine in the evening to find her charge sleeping quietly and restfully, and Mollie reading a new book in the library.

They soon retired, Mollie occupying Monsieur Lamonti's room, which adjoined, although it did not connect with the one where Lucille and Nannette slept. Mollie said she preferred this arrangement to being put off in the guest chamber, as she would feel less lonely.

After shutting herself into the room for the night—although she did not lock the door—not feeling sleepy, she began to look about the apartment, which, like the rest of the house, was full of beautiful and interesting things—fine paintings on the walls, choice books and bric-a-brac on tables and mantle, and in one corner a cabinet of curios, rare and costly.

Mollie spent a long time looking these latter over and reading from the "key" their history and the names of the far-off places whence they had come. But she grew weary of this occupation after a while and finally began to prepare for bed.

While thus engaged she observed on a stand behind the bed what appeared to be a book having a curious cover. She attempted to take it up when the top came off, and she was startled to find it was a box containing a small, but beautiful silver-mounted revolver.

Her start, however, was only momentary, for Mollie knew something about firearms, having had some practise at shooting at a target while she was abroad. She lifted the weapon and examined it carefully, noting the curious chasing on the silver, the number of chambers, and also that it was loaded.

She finally laid it back in its place, replacing the cover, and had scarcely done so when, for the first time, she noticed upon the opposite side of the room a small safe. For a moment an uncomfortable sensation began to creep over her, for the safe and the loaded revolver suggested that there might be valuables to be defended in the former—possibly, she thought, costly jewels, which might have belonged to Lucille's mother and grandmother.

But she put away the feeling with a little shrug and smile, resolutely put out the electric lights, then crept into bed and was soon dreaming, as on two previous nights since her meeting with him, of the hero of her girlhood—Clifford Faxon.

The next she knew she was vaguely conscious of hearing the cathedral clock in the hall strike two; then she was suddenly broad awake, every sense painfully on the alert, although she could not, for the moment, move a muscle, as the conviction was forced upon her that some one was moving stealthily about the room.

CHAPTER IV.
A THRILLING MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE.

For a moment Mollie was simply paralyzed with fear; she could neither move hand nor foot, which perhaps was the very best thing that could have happened under the circumstances. But her mind worked with the rapidity of lightning and to some purpose.

She could distinctly hear the movements of some one about the room, stealthy and cautious as the invader tried to be, and once she plainly saw the outline of a man as the figure passed between her vision and a window.

She was sure that a burglar had entered the house—some one who, doubtless, had learned of Monsieur Lamonti's absence and had taken advantage of it to come and help himself to what valuables he could find.

Then a shock of dismay and fear set all her nerves tingling as she remembered the safe; but this was almost immediately succeeded by a great calm, a grim determination taking possession of her, and plans to carry it out quickly forming in her active brain.

Very cautiously she reached out her right hand and secured the revolver that lay on the stand beside her. Her touch was so light that, as she timed her act just as the burglar stooped to examine the safe, not a sound was distinguishable.

Slipping it under the bed-clothing she softly removed it from the box. The next moment it was cocked and she drew a deep, silent breath of relief as she realized that she could now control the situation about as she pleased.

Her next act was to reach out again and feel for a cluster of three electric buttons, which had been placed in the wall close beside the bed.

One of these controlled a wire communicating with the nearest police-station, and had been put there for just such an emergency as the present. Another was connected with the electric apparatus for lighting the house, and the third governed the lock of the front door.

Similar buttons were in every room of the main portion of the house, and Monsieur Lamonti had explained their operation to Mollie several weeks previous during one of her visits, and they were grouped in the form of a triangle; two were side by side, and the third between and above them.

It was the upper button which Mollie had touched. Then she lay quietly listening for several minutes, while the other occupant, having produced a tiny dark-lantern, continued his investigations at the safe.

All at once, in the distance, she caught the sound of hoofs and wheels, and knew that help was coming to her.

She now touched the button controlling the front door. A moment later she lightly pressed the third button, and instantly the apartment was flooded with light, as was also the hall outside. With a startled oath the burglar sprang to his feet, and, turning, found himself confronted by the loveliest vision he had ever seen in his life, as he afterward told a pal in prison, and a "dandy barker" that was cocked and aimed straight at his heart.

Mollie had sprung to a sitting posture after touching the third button and was prepared for duty. Her face was pale as marble, but there was a determined light in the blue eyes which warned the invader that she was braced for instant action while his experienced eye immediately grasped the fact that she knew how to manipulate the weapon she held, and that her hand was as steady as if she were holding simply a glass of water.

But the man was a desperate and powerful fellow, and he did not mean to be beaten at his game "by any slip of a girl like that," and so determined to make a bluff to attain his object and watch his chance to disarm her.

The house was perfectly still, and he was confident that no one else in it had been aroused, and he fondly imagined he could easily intimidate his fair captor, for he had not the slightest suspicion that she had any way of summoning assistance from outside.

"You'd better put down that barker, miss, if you don't want to get into trouble," he commanded in a gruff, though subdued voice, for he had no desire to arouse any one else. "I don't ever like to hurt a lady, and I'd be 'specially loath to do harm to such a pretty girl as you are."

Mollie's eyes flashed indignant fire at his familiar language and obnoxious compliment.

"Silence!" she cried, in a clear, incisive tone, and her faultless elocution served her to some purpose now, for it made her every word tell effectively. "No!—don't you dare to attempt to get out your revolver if you have one," she continued, as she saw his right hand creeping toward one of his pockets. "That is right," as he instantly dropped it again to his side. "Obey me and you will not be hurt. Show the slightest disposition to disobey me and I will not hesitate to let you have the contents of one of these chambers, and I shall not miss you, either. Now sit down in that rocking-chair near you and put your hands upon the arms."

But the man did hesitate to obey this command and glanced nervously toward the door, which he had left open when he entered the room, as if contemplating a bold dash for freedom. Then he suddenly changed his mind, as the small hand which held that costly revolver was slightly raised as if to take a truer aim, and he obediently dropped into the chair which Mollie had indicated, then added in a tone of mingled wrath and admiration:

"Well, for a girl of your years, you're the coolest specimen I've ever seen."

"Yes, I know something about firearms. I had considerable practise shooting at a target in a gallery in Paris a couple of years ago," remarked the intrepid girl with deliberate distinctness.

Her captive cringed visibly at her remark, and, observing it, she realized that he was at heart a coward in spite of his profession and his attempt to bully her, and her courage rose in proportion. Just then she heard a vehicle outside slacken speed and stop before the house. The burglar also caught the sound and an anxious look shot into his eyes.

"What's that?" he demanded roughly; "the boss coming home?"

"No; Monsieur Lamonti will not return until to-morrow, or until this afternoon, I should have said," Mollie composedly remarked. Then she added with a gleam of triumph in her blue eyes:

"I am expecting some friends whom I have summoned to aid me in this emergency; doubtless they have arrived."

"The cops!" cried the burglar in a startled tone.

"Yes."

"How on earth did you manage that?" he questioned breathlessly.

"Ah!"—as his practised eye swiftly swept the walls and finally rested on the group of electric buttons—"the house is wired for it."

"You are right, and it is an exceedingly convenient arrangement," dryly responded the girl.

"Thunder and lightning! I swear I won't sit here to be caught like a rat in a trap," snarled her companion, as he started wildly to his feet and glanced around him for some way of escape.

"Sit down!" and the pistol in Mollie's hand was again raised menacingly, while footfalls were now plainly heard ascending the steps leading to the entrance to the house.

The man dropped with a quick, indrawn breath, as his eye fell upon the white, slim finger that rested on the trigger of the revolver. Then a sudden thought struck him and he breathed more freely.

"But they can't get in," he observed with a chuckle of exultation, for he told himself that if she was obliged to get up to admit the policemen he would have an opportunity to make a bolt for the nearest window and have a fair chance to escape by means of a balcony which could be plainly discerned outside.

"You are mistaken," his fair captor replied, "for when I touched the button that governs the communication with the station-house I also pressed another that unlocks the front door. Allow me to say for the information of any of your friends who may be followers of your profession, in case you should have an opportunity to communicate with them, that almost every room in the house is wired in the same way."

"Hell and furies!" groaned the unfortunate victim, and actually writhing in his chair, for at that moment steps and voices were heard in the hall below, and he knew that he was inextricably "bagged." Involuntarily he clapped his hand to his pistol-pocket.

"Sit still!" commanded the brave girl, and she leaned forward, her eyes blazing like two points of flame. "Another movement and I fire."

He knew she would, for there was a relentless purpose in her watchful gaze, and he settled back limp and white to await the inevitable.

With her glance never for an instant wavering from the form in the rocker, Mollie called out in clarion tones:

"Come right up-stairs, Mr. Officer, and you will find what you are looking for."

A moment later two policemen entered the room and took in the situation at a glance.

In a trice they had their prize—whom they instantly recognized as a man they had long been trying to run down—disarmed and safely handcuffed, he offering no resistance.

Then they turned their attention to the heroic girl upon the bed. But she felt little like a heroine at that moment.

She had dropped her weapon the instant the officers appeared upon the scene, too weak and spent to hold it longer, and now lay white and panting upon her pillows, consciousness almost forsaking her now that the reaction had come.

Almost simultaneously Nannette rushed into the room, her eyes wide and staring with fear upon beholding three strange men in the place, while she tremulously inquired if the house was on fire.

"No, no," one of the policemen replied reassuringly, "everything is all right now; but you'd better get the young lady a glass of wine or something. Did he attempt to do you any harm, miss?" he respectfully inquired.

"No, he did not have any opportunity," she panted, a ghost of a smile curving her white lips as she significantly touched the revolver that lay beside her.

"I see," said the man with a nod, "and you are a downright plucky girl! There, drink something, and then you shall tell us all about the affair," he concluded as Nannette approached with a glass of port wine which she had taken from a small cabinet which Monsieur Lamonti had in his room.

There was a tall Oriental screen before the fire-place, and the men placed this between the bed and their prisoner, then retired behind it themselves to give the exhausted girl time to recover herself.

Mollie sipped a little of the wine and soon found her strength returning, and with it and the friendly presence of Nannette, much of her habitual self-possession.

"Nannette, pray, get me a shawl or dressing-sack," she whispered to the girl. The maid whisked into her own room and returned almost immediately with a pretty wrapper of her own, and into which she deftly assisted Mollie, who then signified her readiness to talk with the officers, while she seated herself in a chair outside the screen and motioned Nannette to another near her.

She briefly related what had occurred from the moment when she had heard the clock strike two until the appearance of the officers. Her language was simple and unassuming, but the story produced a marked impression upon her hearers.

Nannette became greatly excited during the recital, but protested that she had not heard a sound until Miss Heatherford called out to the officers to come up-stairs, when she hurriedly threw on her robe and came to her, fearing she might be ill or the house afire.

The policemen regarded the fair narrator with undisguised admiration, as she told how she had softly taken possession of the revolver and cocked it beneath the bed-clothing before turning on the lights.

"It was a mighty plucky thing to do," one of them remarked.

"I sincerely hope that I shall not have to testify against this man at a public trial," said Mollie anxiously.

The officers saw that she was greatly distressed in view of such a possibility, and their sympathies were with her.

"Well, miss, I can't say for certain about that. I reckon you'll have to appear and give evidence; but perhaps a private examination can be arranged, and if the reporters don't get hold of it you'll be all right. I'm sure I, for one, would be glad to oblige a lady who has shown more grit than many a man would have done in such a tight place," one of the men observed in the most respectful manner.

"And I'm with you," said the other heartily.

"Thank you very much," Mollie replied gratefully and with that rare smile of hers which made every one delight to serve her.

"Are you timid, Miss Heatherford?" the one who appeared to be the superior officer inquired. "Would you like one of us to stay in the house or about the place for the remainder of the night?"

"Oh, no—thank you. I am sure that will not be necessary, for we shall not be likely to have this experience repeated to-night. We will open the door connecting with the servants' hall, and I shall feel perfectly safe."

"Very well; then we may as well be getting our jailbird into his cage. But, upon second thought," the man added, as he caught sight of Nannette's shiver of terror and saw that Mollie was still very pale, "I think when I get him aboard the patrol-wagon I will leave Brown here to watch about until daylight; maybe it will make you a little easier in your mind."

Mollie smiled gratefully into his honest face.

"Thank you," she said heartily, and with a sudden sense of relief which convinced her that she had overestimated her feeling of security; "perhaps you are right, and I think, on the whole, we may rest better to know that we are guarded."

"Come," said the officer, turning to the burglar, who had not once spoken, except to curse when the handcuffs were slipped upon his wrists, "we must be moving."

Then, with a respectful good-night to the two girls, the officers led him away, and three minutes later Mollie heard the patrol-wagon drive away and heaved a long sigh of thankfulness that the horrible experience was over, and with no loss of valuables to her good friend, Monsieur Lamonti.

Nannette, who had been watching the departure from a window, informed her that Officer Brown had been left behind, and was slowly pacing the sidewalk before the house.

This arrangement was so reassuring to both girls that they immediately retired with a sense of perfect security, and were soon sleeping as soundly and restfully as if they had not been disturbed.

CHAPTER V.
THE TEMPLES APPEAR.

It was after eight o'clock when Mollie finally awoke again, and feeling, somewhat to her surprise, not one whit the worse for her exciting adventure during the small hours of the morning.

After making her toilet she sought Nannette, who was dressing Lucille, and they both agreed not to speak of what had occurred before the servant—at any rate, until after Monsieur Lamonti's return.

Lucille was better, and, after they had had their breakfast, Mollie thought, as the day was very fine, it would do her good to go for a drive.

The carriage was accordingly ordered, and the three—for Lucille never went anywhere without her maid, except on rare occasions with her grandfather—were soon rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue, thence to Mollie's home to ascertain how Mr. Heatherford had passed the night, after which the coachman was told to drive out toward Arlington Heights.

They rested a while in the venerable mansion, and then started on their homeward way. They were just passing the boundary of what was once known as the "old Lee estate," when they met another carriage entering the beautiful grounds.

This vehicle contained four persons, and they were none other than Mr. and Mrs. William Temple, with their daughter Minnie, and Philip Wentworth. This quartet manifested no little astonishment upon beholding Mollie, sitting like a fair young princess in her fine equipage, and she experienced a little secret amusement as she encountered their wondering gaze.

Mr. and Mrs. Temple bowed politely, but with marked formality. Minnie waved her hand, with a smile of pleasure, at her old friend, of whom she had been very fond, while Philip removed his hat with elaborate courtesy, his eyes beaming with admiration as he looked into Mollie's fair face and realized that she was even lovelier than when he had seen her last in Boston, a year and a half previous, and instantly all his old-time passion for her revived.

Mollie returned these greetings courteously and with the utmost self-possession; but her eyes were very bright and the color in her cheeks gleamed like scarlet poppies for a moment.

Then the carriages passed and were parted without a word having been spoken, although Minnie had been upon the point of bursting out in her childish eagerness with some expression of greeting; but her mother hushed her with a single low-spoken word.

Mollie's heart burned within her with mingled scorn and indignation, in view of this coldness, for she well remembered the days when the whole family had been most gracious in their manner toward her—had even fawned upon her and spared no effort to cultivate her society.

She was stung anew, too, with the memory of the unpardonable outrage perpetrated against her father during their last visit with the Temples; while, even though she had long known that she had never loved and could never love and would never marry him under any circumstances, Philip's peculiar attitude toward her filled her with a secret contempt for him.

"Why! how strange that we should have met Mollie Heatherford, and what an elegant turnout that is in which she is riding!" Mrs. Temple observed to her husband after the encounter, while she turned and peered out of the rear window of their own carriage for another glimpse of Monsieur Lamonti's fine victoria with its liveried coachman and footman.

"It certainly is," Mr. Temple replied. "Those were magnificent horses, and everything about the affair indicated lavish expenditure. I don't quite understand the condition of things," he concluded reflectively.

"Mollie was richly dressed, too, and looked, as she always had a way of looking, like a queen—she has grown handsomer than ever," his wife pursued. "Did you notice the child and its nurse who were with her?" she went on, as if some startling thought had occurred to her. "Do you suppose the girl has married some rich widower and is queening it here in Washington society?"

Philip gave a violent start as his mother propounded this solution to the problem that was puzzling them all, and jealously regretting—as fickle human nature is prone to do when another shows appreciation of a discarded favorite—what he fondly imagined might have been his if he had chosen to press his suit.

"I have heard nothing of it if she has," said Mr. Temple, and looking not altogether comfortable in view of finding the Heatherfords again on an equal footing with himself. "The last I knew, Mr. Heatherford had secured a position here with a fair salary, and they were living comfortably, but in a very humble way compared with their former circumstances. I will make some inquires to-morrow and ascertain, if possible, just how they are situated."

Philip did not join in the conversation, but he secretly resolved that he would himself ascertain the truth about Mollie that very day. He would seek her in the location to which he had always addressed his letters, as long as he had written her, and if he failed to find her there he would search the city over for her.

Neither Mr. Temple nor his mother had known of his correspondence with her, and the latter had flattered herself that she had been very tactful in managing to break up certain "foolish" relations between the two that were liable to prove very awkward.

The family had been in Washington only a few days, and, although Philip had thought of Mollie in an indifferent kind of way, he had not felt any special interest to look her up. Now, however, the sight of her radiant beauty, together with her cool and dignified bearing and the fear that possibly she had dared to marry another, while he assumed to have a claim—however indefinite—upon her, fired anew his old-time love for her and aroused a fierce jealousy within him.

Accordingly, after he had lunched, he immediately set forth upon his quest for her, going directly to the address where his letters had been sent.

Eliza, of course, answered his ring, but informed him that her young mistress was not at home—that, however, she would probably return that evening. He then inquired for Mr. Heatherford, and was told, with a non-committal air, that he was "comfortable."

"Has he been ill?" questioned Philip, with some surprise.

"Yes, sah; Marsa Heatherford have been very ill." Eliza quietly returned, but without volunteering any information regarding the nature of that gentleman's malady, while she eyed Philip curiously, not half-liking his looks nor his arrogant bearing.

The young man, however, went away, smoothing his ruffled plumage with no little satisfaction. Mollie was not married; probably, he assumed, she was simply a day governess in some wealthy family, and that would account for her being out for a drive with the child and its nurse in the elegant carriage he had seen that morning.

He returned to his hotel quite elated and promising himself that he would resume his old relations—to a certain extent—with Mollie, and thus help to pass some otherwise dull hours during his sojourn in the city.

In spite of the secrecy which Mollie had desired to preserve regarding her exciting adventure of the previous night, the evening papers contained a thrilling account of a bold attempt at robbery, and how it had been thwarted by the remarkable heroism of a young lady, who had held the would-be burglar paralyzed at the muzzle of a revolver until the police were summoned to her aid and captured the criminal.

The name of the gentleman whose residence had been entered was given; but Mollie's name was considerately withheld. She was simply designated as Monsieur Lamonti's private secretary, who had been spending a couple of days in the house as chaperon for the gentleman's little granddaughter during his absence on a business trip to New York.

Monsieur Lamonti returned, as he had planned, that same evening, and was greatly exercised in view of what had occurred.

"Mademoiselle has shown herself very brave," he said, after having freely discussed the matter and regarding her admiringly, "but I tremble when I think of the danger that threatened her. And there was much of value in the safe, too—a large sum of money, besides many valuable jewels. Ah! but you have been my good angel many times, mademoiselle," he concluded in a grateful tone.

He opened the safe and showed her the jewels, and, though she had seen many costly articles of jewelry, she was almost dazzled by the beauty and value of the collection before her.

"We will not keep them here any longer," said Monsieur Lamonti, as he returned them to their places. "I could not bear to send them away because my dear ones had worn them," he added with a regretful sigh, "but no one must ever be subjected again to such peril as threatened you last night."

And the following morning he deposited his treasure in a safety-vault, where no burglar would attempt to seek them.

Shortly after Monsieur Lamonti's arrival Mollie was sent home in his carriage, that gentleman slipping into her hands a box containing a dozen pairs of elegant kid gloves, as she left.

"It is nothing," he said with a deprecatory shrug in reply to her thanks; "it was only to give myself the pleasure of buying something for some one."

Eliza welcomed her young mistress with a beaming face when she appeared, and she found that her father had received excellent care during her absence; but she had not been in the house half an hour, when Philip Wentworth again made his appearance.

Mollie received him courteously, though somewhat coldly; but he ignored her lack of cordiality, and, catching both her hands in his, fervently exclaimed:

"At last! Mollie, we meet again! It has seemed an age since I saw you in Boston. Did your servant tell you of my call directly after lunch?"

"Yes; Eliza gave me your card on my return. I have been away spending a couple of days with some friends," Mollie quietly explained, as she released her hands and indicated a chair for him, then seated herself upon a small sofa near him.

"Perhaps you will think me very persistent and impatient to make two calls in one day," Philip observed apologetically, and feeling a trifle disconcerted by the girl's perfect composure; "but I have been wild to learn why you ceased writing to me so suddenly—I have not heard from you for the longest while!"

Mollie lifted a look of surprise to him.

"I think you have transposed the situation," she said, a faint smile curving her lips. "I have answered every letter that I have received from you."

"Ah! then I have wronged you; forgive me! And my last letter must have miscarried, for when I did not hear from you I began to wonder if it could have contained anything to offend you," Philip returned, but he flushed beneath the clear, searching eyes looking steadily into his, as he uttered the lie. Then unceremoniously waiving the uncomfortable topic, he added with animation:

"But tell me something about yourself now, Mollie. I do not need to ask if you are well; for your blooming appearance speaks for itself; but how is your father, and what have you been doing to amuse yourself during all these long months?"

Again that faint smile wreathed Mollie's lips, and there was a suspicion of irony in it, for his question was suggestive of the tenor of his own way of passing his time.

"'To amuse myself'," she repeated in a peculiar tone. "I really have had very little time to devote to amusement of any kind during the last year and a half. For the first few months I was busy keeping house for papa, for we were trying to be economical and kept no servant. Then he was taken ill."

"Yes, I remember you wrote me at one time that he was ill," Philip interposed, "but I supposed that he had recovered long ago."

"My father is a hopeless invalid—the physicians tell me that he will never be any better," said Mollie sadly.

"Can that be possible?" queried her companion, and trying to throw a proper amount of sympathy into his tone, but secretly wondering how they managed to keep the wolf from the door.

"Of course, when his health gave out he lost his situation, and his income stopped," Mollie gravely resumed, "and I was obliged to seek some employment. I have a position as private secretary to Monsieur Lamonti, a French gentleman of some prominence here in Washington—possibly you may have heard of him."

"Ah! yes, I have," said Philip with elevated eyebrows, for the wealthy Frenchman had been pointed out to him, and now he understood how Mollie had happened to be riding in that elegant turnout that morning. Then he added: "I am sorry to learn that Mr. Heatherford's case is so serious."

"Yes; papa has failed sadly; he seldom recognizes even me, now, while his hands have become so useless that he has to be fed like a child," Mollie returned with starting tears.

"That must make it very hard for you, dear," Philip responded with a tender inflection; "you must find it very irksome, reared as you have been, to confine yourself to a position and the care of an invalid."

"I do not," she returned brightly, though she straightened herself a trifle and flushed at his term of endearment. "I thoroughly enjoy my position, and if papa could only be well once more, I should feel perfectly happy with my work and the consciousness that I am really of some practical use in the world."

She looked so proud and animated and bore herself with such an air of dignity and self-reliance that the young man told himself she was a hundredfold more lovely and attractive than she had ever been.

But, at the same time, there was an unmistakable atmosphere about her that held him at arm's length and made him feel as if she had drifted so far apart from him as to have put him entirely out of her life.

The very thought enraged him, and an insatiate desire to conquer these conditions and make himself necessary to her happiness took possession of him. He flushed hotly as he suddenly bent nearer to her.

"Mollie, I cannot bear to know that you are working for wages," he said passionately.