She brought the conversation cleverly around to Lord Westerly, talked of his manly worth, his good looks, his ample fortune: then she startled her friend by crying out, abruptly: “Oh, Miss Trueheart, why don’t you marry this good man and put him out of his pain?” No one had ever arraigned Madelon Trueheart like this before, and at first she was a little constrained and stately in her answers. “I have told Lord Westerly long ago that it was useless waiting for me, and that he would do better to love some woman who was free to leave her mother and marry.” “But, dear Miss Trueheart, daughters do leave their mothers and marry,” remonstrated Molly. “I shall never leave mine!” said Miss Trueheart, firmly. “She has her husband, even if you should leave her, and he ought to be sufficient comfort if she lost all else!” “But he is not, Mrs. Laurens, for he needs me almost as much as she does. My father, although he seems so cold and cross and sarcastic is in reality almost near being broken-hearted as my mother. But, dear Mrs. Laurens, how much surprised you look. Has no one told you of our trouble?” “Trouble?” Molly stammered. “I should have said bereavement,” said Madelon Trueheart, tears softening the glitter of her cold, dark eyes, and Molly exclaimed, tenderly: “Forgive me, I have heard nothing.” “Then I must tell you, for I do not like for you to think that my parents are selfish, and that I am cruel to the man I love.” “Forgive me for interfering. I did not know there was anything serious behind your refusal to marry.” “Listen,” said Madelon, gently, “I am not angry with you for interfering. You did not know what others do. Dear Mrs. Laurens, my parents had two children once, a son and daughter. Their son, my senior by several years, died in the prime of youth, and it almost broke their hearts.” “Died in his youth--oh, how sad!” Tears that had been gathering on Molly’s lashes rolled down her cheeks. “That was not the saddest part of it,” said Madelon Trueheart. “My dear, he was dead to us long before the coffin lid covered his handsome face from the sight of men. He offended my father and was disinherited and driven from home because he contracted a _mésalliance_.” “A _mésalliance_,” Molly faltered, with a half sob that this time was for herself, not Madelon Trueheart’s dead brother. “Yes,” answered Madelon, sadly. “He was traveling in America and in New York he fell in love with a pretty actress. He married her and sent a letter to tell us what he had done. Father cursed his only son and forbade him to ever return to the home he had disgraced.” “An actress. It is always an actress that must break hearts. What a cruel, wretched, proud world it is,” Molly cried, with startling vehemence. Madelon Trueheart looked at her in sad surprise.