“Dolly!” she exclaimed when she saw them, “where have you been? Griffith has been here since five, and now he is out looking for you. I had given you up entirely, but he would not. He fancied you had been delayed by something.” “I have been delayed by something,” said Dolly, her heart failing her again. “And here is Mollie, with the headache. You had better go to bed, Mollie. How long is it since Grif left the house?” “Scarcely ten minutes,” was the answer. “It is a wonder you did not meet him. Oh, Dolly!” ominously, “how unlucky you are!” Dolly quite choked in her effort to be decently composed in manner. “I _am_ unlucky,” she said; and without saying more, she made her way into the parlor. She took her hat off there and tossed it on the sofa, utterly regardless of consequences, and then dropped into her chair and looked round the room. It did not look as she had pictured it earlier in the day. Its cheerfulness was gone, and it looked simply desolate. The fire had sunk low in the grate, and the hearth was strewn with dead ashes;--somehow or other, everything seemed chilled and comfortless. She was too late for the brightness and warmth,--a few hours before it had been bright and warm, and Grif had been there waiting for her. Where was he now? She dropped her face on the arm of her chair with a sob of disappointed feeling and foreboding. What if he had seen them leave Ralph Gowan, and had gone home! “It's too bad!” she cried. “It is cruel! I can't bear it! Oh, Grif, _do_ come!” And her tears fell thick and fast. Ten minutes later she started up with a little cry of joy and relief. That was his footstep upon the pavement, and before he had time to ring she was at the door. She could scarcely speak to him in her excitement. “Oh, Grif!” she said; “Grif--darling!” But he did not offer to touch her, and strode past her outstretched hands. “Come into this room with me,” he said, hoarsely; and the simple sound of his voice struck her to the heart like a blow. She followed him, trembling, and when they stood in the light, and she saw his deathly, passion-wrung face, her hand crept up to her side and pressed against it.  He had a package in his hand,--a package of letters,--and he laid them down on the table. “I have been home for these,” he said. “Your letters,--I have brought them back to you.” “Grif!” she cried out. He waved her back.