There was in her dress and air no attempt at wedding bravery. She wore a quiet, silver-gray silk, with ribbons of the same sober hue that gave her a demure, Quaker-like appearance. He had seen her in the same dress before when her vivid face had lighted it up into beauty, but now her thinness, her pallor, her expression of humility and misery combined, was actually painful to behold. He stopped in front of her, and her haggard face lighted up with something like hope. “You sent for me?” he said, icily. And she faltered, humbly: “I wanted to--to--thank you, Cecil, for--for--your--kindness to me in--in repairing the--the--” The faltering voice broke down entirely, choked by sobs. Molly’s face dropped into her hands, and tears fell through her fingers. Cecil Laurens stood regarding her in silence, apparently unmoved by her passionate emotion. He thought, angrily: “She is trying to move me by the arts of the actress inherited from her low mother, but she will not succeed.” But it was not comfortable to watch those tears, even while he believed them feigned. He moved restlessly, and spoke: “It was not worth your while to thank me, for you must be aware that it was not for your own sake that I made the sacrifice of an hour ago, but only that the honor of the Laurens family might remain untarnished.” She murmured, brokenly, through her tears: “Yes, I know. Your brother told me. But--since you disdain thanks from me--let me thank you in the name of my unborn child for the mercy you have had on us both! Oh, Cecil, husband,” rising in a gust of passion and falling down humbly at his feet, “will you not let me tell you all my story; how I was tempted, how I fell into error? I am not so wicked as you think me. I--I--oh, Heaven! he has gone without a glance or a single kind word!” for he had turned deliberately and left the room. CHAPTER XXXIII. Blinded by passion, indignant that Molly should have the hardihood to attempt any defense of her treachery, Cecil Laurens had turned a deaf ear to her pleadings and hurried from the room. But he did not go back to the conclave in the parlor. He hurried along the hall to the room he had occupied in solitude last night, entered and locked the door. Moved and agitated in spite of his strong self-will, he walked restlessly up and down the floor.