And Hugh Ingelow watched her with an indescribable expression in his fathomless eyes, and made no effort to console her. The sods rattled on the coffin-lid, the grave was filled up, and everybody was hurrying away out of the rain. It was all over, like some dismal dream, and Mollie, shivering under her shawl, took one last backward look at the grave of her mother, and was hurried back to the carriage by Hugh Ingelow. But she was so deathly white and cold, and she trembled with such nervous shivering, that the young man drew her to him in real alarm. "You are going to be ill, Mollie," he said. "You are ill." "Am I?" said Mollie, helplessly. "I don't know. I hope not. I want to go away so much." "So much? To leave me, Mollie?" Mollie lifted her heavy eyes, filled with unutterable reproach. "You don't care," she said. "It is nothing to you. And it should be nothing," suddenly remembering herself and sitting up. "Please let me go, Mr. Ingelow. We must part, and it is better so." Mr. Ingelow released her without a word. Mollie sat up, drew a letter from her pocket, and handed it to him. He saw it was addressed to Carl Walraven, and looked at her inquiringly. "I wish you to read it," she said. It was unsealed. He opened it at once, and read: "MR. WALRAVEN,--Miriam is dead--Miriam Dane--my mother. She deceived you from first to last. I am no daughter of yours--for which I humbly thank God!--no daughter of Mary Dane. I am Miriam's child; yours died in the work-house in its babyhood. I know my own story--I know your hand is red with my father's blood. I don't forgive you, Mr. Walraven, but neither do I accuse you. I simply never will see you again. Mr. Ingelow will hand you this. He and I alone know the story. MARY DANE." Mr. Ingelow looked up. "Will it do?" she asked. "Yes. Am I to deliver it?" "If you will add that kindness to your others. I don't think he will seek me out. He knows better than that." Her head dropped against the side of the carriage. The face usually so sparkling looked very, very pale, and worn, and sad. The young artist took her hand and held it a moment at parting. "You intend to write to your old manager to-morrow, Mollie?" "Yes." "Don't do it. Postpone it another day. I am coming here to-morrow, and I have a different plan in my head that I think will suit better. Wait until to-morrow, Mollie, and trust me." His eyes flashed with an electric fire that thrilled the girl through. What did he mean? But Mr. Ingelow had sprung into the carriage again and was gone. CHAPTER XXVIII. CRICKET'S HUSBAND.