At half-past seven an early train is starting. Long before that time she is dressed, with her hat and jacket on, fearful lest by any delay she should miss it; and when at length the carriage is brought round to the door she runs swiftly down the stairs to meet it. In the hall below, awaiting her, stands Luttrell, ready to accompany her. "Are you going, too?" Cecil asks, in a whisper, only half surprised. "Yes, of course. I will take her myself to Brooklyn." "I might have known you would," Cecil says, kindly, and then she kisses Molly, who hardly returns the caress, and puts her into the carriage, and, pressing Luttrell's hand warmly, watches them until they are driven out of her sight. During all the long drive not one word does Molly utter. Neither does Luttrell, whose heart is bleeding for her. She takes no notice of him, expresses no surprise at his being with her. At the station he takes her ticket, through bribery obtains an empty carriage, and, placing a rug round her, seats himself at the farthest end of the compartment from her,--so little does he seek to intrude upon her grief. And yet she takes no heed of him. He might, indeed, be absent, or the veriest stranger, so little does his presence seem to affect her. Leaning rather forward, with her hands clasped upon her knees, she scarcely stirs or raises her head throughout the journey, except to go from carriage to train, from train back again to carriage. Once, during their last short drive from the station to Brooklyn, moved by compassion, he ventures to address her. "I wish you could cry, my poor darling," he says, tenderly, taking her hand and fondling it between his own. "Tears could not help me," she answers. And then, as though aroused by his voice, she says, uneasily, "Why are you here?" "Because I am his friend and--yours," he returns, gently, making allowance for her small show of irritation. "True," she says, and no more. Five minutes afterward they reach Brooklyn. The door stands wide open. All the world could have entered unrebuked into that silent hall. What need now for bars and bolts? When the Great Thief has entered in and stolen from them their best, what heart have they to guard against lesser thefts? Luttrell follows Molly into the house, his face no whit less white than her own. A great pain is tugging at him,--a pain that is almost an agony. For what greater suffering is there than to watch with unavailing sympathy the anguish of those we love? He touches her lightly on the arm to rouse her, for she has stood stock-still in the very middle of the hall,--whether through awful fear, or grief, or sudden bitter memory, her heart knoweth. "Molly," says her lover, "let me go with you." "You still here?" she says, awaking from her thoughts, with a shiver. "I thought you gone. Why do you stay? I only ask to be alone."