Molly lay there still and pale upon the pillow with quick tears raining from her forlorn eyes and drenching her cheeks. “It will never come right again--how should it?” she moaned. “I am found out at last in my sin and punishment has fallen on me. Alas, the way of the transgressor is indeed hard.” She had always known that discovery would come some time, that punishment would overtake her, that she would have to repent in dust and ashes for her strange sin; but that it would come like this, with this horrible disgrace upon its track she had no more dreamed than she had dreamed of being Queen of England, or any other impossible thing. “I have been loved by him. I have lived with him, believed myself his wife. I am soon to bear a child to him, yet I am not his wife, never have been, and now he scorns and deserts me. Yet I brought it all upon myself by my ignorance and madness,” she sighed to herself, and so agonizing was this knowledge to the young, devoted heart that it was a wonder that it did not kill her outright. She would have been glad if it had done so, for death would have been a welcome relief from the anguish of soul and body that she was enduring. “God pardon my sin, and take me out of the world!” she prayed, despairingly, and there came over her a great wonder at herself that she had come to such a terrible pass. “Am I dreaming? Is this indeed Molly Trueheart who a year ago was a child with no higher aim than fun and frolic, with a heart as light as thistledown? Great Heaven, why did I ever let them send me to Ferndale? Nothing but despair and disgrace has come of it, and I have ruined my life forever for a few months of bitter-sweet bliss,” she moaned, flinging up her hands and beating the air impatiently in impotent despair. The door opened and Phebe entered with a tempting breakfast arranged on a silver service. But Molly pushed the dainty viands loathingly away. “As if I could eat while my poor heart is breaking,” she said, with pathetic eyes, and just then there came a light tap at the door. Phebe sat down the tray and found one of the servants waiting. “A lady to see Mrs. Laurens,” he said. “I told her she was sick, but she insisted, and--” he broke off with a start, for the visitor was just behind him. “I knew Mrs. Laurens would not mind, because I am such an old friend,” she twittered, insolently, and pushed past Phebe into the room. It was Louise Barry, handsome and smiling, in a rich costume of dark silk and velvet. “Oh, Molly, in bed yet? Luxury has taught you bad habits,” she exclaimed with a light laugh. “My mistress is sick, madame,” exclaimed Phebe, banging the door shut, and turning on the visitor with sharp displeasure. “Go away, Louise! I can’t bear the sight of you!” Molly cried, fretfully; but Miss Barry sank coolly into the easiest chair in the luxurious room. “Your manners are as bad as of old, Molly,” she retorted, insolently. “But send your maid away, please; I want to talk to you privately.”