“It is very kind of you to feel for us like that,” she said. “It _was_ bitter, was it not! We are such an old family and so proud! But we loved Ernest so--dear mother and I--that we would have forgiven him, and made the best of his low-born bride. But, alas, father would not have it so. He forbade us sternly ever to think of the erring one again. Then in just a little while--two years, no more--came the message that he was dead.” Molly lay back among the silken cushions of her easy chair pale, but with burning eyes. She moved her lips slightly in an almost inaudible whisper: “Ernest--Ernest Trueheart.” “Was it not dreadful?” sighed Madelon. “I think father must have been gradually growing more tender, for he almost went mad with remorse at the news of Ernest’s early death. And mother, poor soul, you can easily see that her heart is broken, and her health fading. She has never held up her head since he died, though it is nearly fifteen years ago. Can you blame me now, dear, that I feel it my first duty to stay with my afflicted parents?” Molly did not answer. She was sobbing softly in her handkerchief, and Madelon went on: “If Ernest’s wife would have come to us when he died we would have received her, and loved her for the sake of the dead. But she was proud as we had been, and refused our proffers with scorn. Mother wrote to her that if she had a child we wanted her to give it to us. But she did not even reply. None could blame her, could they since father had been so hard at first?” “What was her name?” asked Molly, almost in a whisper. “It was Molly Glenn--so plain and common, father said, but Ernest wrote that she was good and beautiful and a clever actress. I have no doubt she was all three, for my brother was very fastidious. But my story has been too sad for you, dear Mrs. Laurens. It has grieved your gentle heart!” CHAPTER XVIII. Molly was saved from replying, for Miss Trueheart’s maid knocked softly to say that Mr. Laurens had called for his wife, and was waiting. Hurriedly kissing her friend, the young wife ran down to join her husband. “Louise, my darling, your eyes are red. You have been crying,” he said to her, full of solicitude. “Miss Trueheart was telling me a sad story about one of her friends,” she replied, evasively, and he rejoined: “I am sorry for that, for I, too, have a sad story to relate--one that will distress you, I am sure.” Molly gave a guilty start, and looked anxiously at her husband. He was looking pale and grave. “Some one has betrayed me,” she thought, with her heart leaping into her throat, and his next words confirmed her terror. “Child, you have deceived me,” he said, with portentous sternness. The clear blue sky, the streets and houses, all whirled up in a wild confusion before Molly’s blurred sight. She fell heavily back against the carriage cushions, and it seemed to her as if the hand of death gripped her heart.