“It is nine o'clock,” she said, desperately, as they passed a lighted church tower. “It is nine o'clock.” And she leaned back in her corner again, with her heart beating strongly. Her disappointment was so keen that she could have burst into a passion of tears. Her happy evening was gone, and her dream of simple pleasure had fled with its sacrificed hours. She could not help remembering this, and being quite conquered by the thought, even though Mollie was safe. They had settled what to do beforehand. At the corner of the street Gowan was to leave them, and the two girls were to go in together, Mollie making her way at once to her room upon pretext of headache. A night's rest would restore her self-control, and by the next morning she would be calm enough to face the rest, and so her wild escapade would end without risk of comment if she was sufficiently discreet to keep her own counsel. At present she was too thoroughly upset and frightened even to feel humiliation. “Nearly half-past nine,” said Gowan, as he assisted them to descend to the pavement at their journey's end. The light from an adjacent lamp showed him that the face under Dolly's hat was very pale and excited, and her eyes were shining and large with repressed tears as she gave him her hand. “I cannot find words to thank you just yet,” she said, low and hurriedly. “I wish I could; but--you know what you have helped me to save Mollie from to-night, and so you know what my gratitude must be. The next time I see you, perhaps, I shall be able to say what I wish, but now I can only say goodnight, and--oh, God bless you!” And the little hand fairly wrung his. Mollie shook hands with him, trembling and almost reluctantly. She was pale, too, and her head drooped as if it would nevermore regain the old trick of wilful, regal carriage. “You have been very kind to take so much trouble,” she said. “You were kinder than I deserved,--both of you.” “Now,” said Dolly, when he sprang into the cab, and they turned away together,--“now for getting into the house as quietly as possible. No,” trying to speak cheerily, and as if their position was no great matter, “you must n't tremble, Mollie, and you mustn't cry. It is all over now, and everything is as commonplace and easy to manage as can be. You have been out, and have got the headache, and are going to bed. That is all. All the rest we must forget. Nothing but a headache, Mollie, and a headache is not much, so we won't fret about it. If it had been a heartache, and sin and shame and sorrow--but it isn't. But, Mollie,” they had already reached the house then, and stood upon the steps, and she turned to the girl and put a hand on each of her shoulders, speaking tremulously, “when you go up-stairs, kneel down by your bedside and say your prayers, and thank God that it is n't,--thank God that it is n't, with all your heart and soul.” And she kissed her cheek softly just as they heard Aimée coming down the hall to open the door.