"Are you sure you will be warm enough, Mollie?--I beg your pardon--Miss Dane." "Ah, call me Mollie!" the eloquent glance once more. "How good you are to me, Mr. Ingelow!" Hugh Ingelow winced as if she had stabbed him. "I'm a wretch--a brute--a heartless monster! That's what I am, Mollie, and you'll think so, too, some day--that's the worst of it. Don't wear that puzzled, frightened face, my darling! Heaven knows I would die for you!" She took his hand and kissed it. Before either had time to speak, of course Mrs. Sharpe must happen in and spoil all. But Hugh Ingelow, strange to say, looked rather relieved. His face had flushed hotly under that innocent kiss, and then grown deathly pale. He was very white when Mrs. Sharpe came in, and Mrs. Sharpe's sharp eyes saw it. The green glasses were gone. "You look fit to die," observed Mrs. Susan Sharpe, eying him. "What's the matter?" Mollie looked at him, then turned away. Had she been forward? Was he mortified? She colored painfully, then slowly petrified to marble. But the young artist only laughed. "Pining for you, Mrs. Sharpe. I only exist in the light of your eyes. By the way, where's the green spectacles?" "In my pocket. Come!" Mollie had knotted her bonnet strings with nervous, trembling fingers. She was thrilling through with mortification. She had been bold, and she had disgusted his fastidious taste, and she had not meant it. She was so grateful, and she loved him so dearly, but she never would offend in that way again. Mr. Ingelow offered her his arm, but she drew back. "I will follow you," she said, in a low voice, shrinking painfully into herself. He said no more, but led the way. Mrs. Sharpe went after, Miss Dane last. No sound broke the stillness of the house. They might have been in their beds for all the noise they made. "I hope it's all right," Mrs. Sharpe said, with a very uneasy face; "but I feel scared." "You needn't, then," answered Mr. Ingelow; "they're safe enough. They'll be all alive in two or three hours from now, and will never know what ailed them. Save your sympathy, Susan, for time of need." They went down-stairs, out-of-doors, into the cool, bright moonlight. Mollie Dane drew a long, long breath of unspeakable thankfulness as she breathed the fresh, free air once more. "Thank Heaven," she thought, "and--Hugh Ingelow!" They reached the garden gate; it stood wide; they passed out, and the artist closed it securely after him. "'Safe bind, safe find!' Now, Miss Dane, take my arm, and let us see you step out. I have a trap waiting down the road. Neat thing this in the way of moonlight, isn't it?" Mollie essayed to laugh. He had not waited for her to decline his proffered arm this time--he had taken her hand and drawn it securely through. "How does freedom feel, Mollie, after a week or two of close imprisonment?" "Very delightful. You must suffer the imprisonment first, Mr. Ingelow, before you can realize it."