"My child"--Dick rose, for it was getting cold--"this is the most alarming temptation of all. It must be stopped right away. Look here, Molly," they were standing face to face under the lamp-post beside the railings of the park, "you know very well that you are only shamming. You love me; and I--well, shall I say it?" "Stage people have no emotions, Dick. You said so yourself just now." "This is not an emotion. It is part of me. I live in it; I breathe it; I only exist, my Molly, because of you. There isn't any stage gesture to signify my state of mind. The stalls would be disturbed in their little minds if one put this passion into visible representation. Even the gallery wouldn't understand. Put your arms on my shoulders, Molly." She obeyed; she was quite as tall as her lover, and she had no difficulty in throwing her arms quite round his neck, which she did. If she blushed, the stars, which blink because they are short-sighted, could not see it. The lamp on the lamp-post is, of course, used to such things. "You are the best girl in the world," he said, "the best and the dearest; and I promise you, Molly--the best and the dearest--that Humphrey shall never marry you, and that Mrs. Siddons shall never have a rival in you, and that you shall never become Miss Molly Pennefather Haveril, heiress of millions, with decayed dukes and barefooted barons languishing after you." He kissed her on the forehead and the lips. The girl made no reply, except to draw a long breath, which might have meant remonstrance, and might equally well mean satisfaction. She took up the violin-case. "If I must carry the fiddle," she said, "let me see how it feels." He made no objection. The action was a symbol. He accepted it as a visible expression of acquiescence, and so, side by side, in silence, they walked home under the stars and the lamp-posts. CHAPTER XIV. THE FIRST MOVE. "No, my children," Alice replied. It was two days later. They were sympathetic children; they would feel for one. "I am not afraid to tell you what troubles me day and night. I am not afraid, but I am ashamed." "You need not be ashamed," said Molly, stoutly. "Whatever you did must have been well done." Alice sighed. "I wish I could think so. Sit down, one on each side of me, and I will tell you. Take my hand, Molly dear." She was lying on a couch. In these days she was troubled with her heart, and lay down a good deal. So lying, with closed eyes, she had the courage to tell her story--the whole of it--suppressing nothing: the terrible sale of her child. She told them all. "My child was taken away," she concluded. "It was the choice of that for him, or the workhouse. My people would do nothing for me. Partly they were poor--you know them, Molly--and some of them were Methodists, and serious. So I thought of the child's welfare; and I thought I should find my husband with the money, and so--and so----" "You let him go." Molly finished the sentence.