“Do you know all?” she asked, looking fixedly at him. “Phebe has told me as well as she could, so I don’t want you to talk about it tonight, as you are in too excited a state to do so. I have a little powder here which I want you to take so that you may sleep well tonight, for I must go away in a little while and leave you in your good Phebe’s care,” he said, gently, like one speaking to a sick child. “Then I shall be quite deserted,” she murmured, plaintively. “No, for I shall come again.” “When?” pleadingly. “Tomorrow.” She caught his arm as he bent down to hold the medicine glass to her lips. “You do not look scornful like the rest,” she panted. “Ah, won’t you--won’t you--beg _him_ to forgive me? I was wicked, I know, but I have suffered so much since that it almost seems as if my remorse and sorrow had washed out my sin. And--I loved him so! How could I help it when we loved each other so, and that secret would have parted us forever? Tell him, tell him--” her voice broke in hysterical sobs, and he pushed her gently back among the pillows as he said: “I’ll see him. Only be quiet, dear, and I’ll tell him all you said and more, for he shall know the sweet secret you have been hiding from him--the secret that will surely bring him back to you.” “No, no, he will not return; he has left me forever,” she sobbed, and turned her face from him so that it was hidden from sight. He sat down patiently until the heaving breast grew quiet in the stillness of a drugged sleep, then leaving her in Phebe’s watchful care, went in search of his brother. It was only as he went down the steps of The Acacias and out into the gas-lighted street that he remembered that he had not the address to which his relatives had gone. “But it is to the Langham, of course. They always go there when they have not taken a house in town,” he said to himself, and turned his steps thitherward. “It is early, thank Heaven, so they will not have retired or gone out,” he thought, as he walked slowly along, pondering over the painful affair, and feeling profoundly sad at the thought of Molly’s treachery. “Her youth is her only excuse, and yet it seems strange that one so young and seemingly guileless could have conceived and carried out such a clever, wicked plan,” he thought, in wonder, and knowing Cecil’s proud, honest nature as he did he could not feel surprised at the latter’s indignant action in deserting the girl who had thus deceived him. “But according to Phebe’s description the real Louise Barry can not be one-half as charming as the pretended one,” he said to himself, recalling with some amusement the maid’s spiteful description of the latter as a “yellow-headed, yellow-eyed, deceitful cat.” His musings brought him at last to the Langham, where he found as he had hoped and expected, his father, mother and brother registered.