Perhaps some such thought came to the offended husband too. He played one after another the old melodies he had played that night, then some later ones that she had loved. His touch was very soft and sweet. Perhaps the plaintive request from his neglected wife combined with the subtle influence of the music softened and thrilled his proud heart. “This is better than going down. Oh, how kind he was to grant my request!” the young creature sighed, her heart swelling with passionate love and sorrow. Cecil played for more than an hour, then there came a pause. “It is over. He is weary, or perhaps already repenting of his kindness to me,” she murmured, but the sense of his indulgence and the influence of the music caused a new hope to spring in her heart. But it was of short duration, for in a moment the music began again, and voices rose on the air in a duet, the tenderest of love-songs--voices that it was not hard to distinguish as those of her husband and Louise Barry. “Oh, cruel, cruel; they have done this to wound me!” she cried, and sobbed herself to sleep. Yet she might have known that the artful Louise was at the bottom of it all. She had begged so that he would accompany her in that duet that he could not in courtesy refuse. Molly’s pathetic request for the music had made Cecil think of her, as she had hoped; and it had done more--it had softened his hard heart to some degree. That night, alone in his chamber, his thoughts turned to her with more kindness than he had dreamed he could ever feel for her again. Her meek acquiescence in his hard decree of separation, her humility, her illness, her patience rose before him in so touching and pathetic a light, that a moisture dimmed his eyes. “Poor girl! she is crushed to earth by the exposure of her treachery,” he thought, and a great wonder at her humility came over him. “Such a spirited little creature, such a mad-cap, as she used to be! What has subdued her so? Can it be the work of love--love for me?” These softened thoughts followed him until the next morning, and something like pity began to blend with his anger toward his unhappy wife. “She is ill and lonely, and perhaps I ought to show her some little courtesy. I will send her some new books; she can beguile her lonely hours with them,” he told himself, and spent an hour selecting a dozen books on poetry, romance, travel, and kindred subjects. His heart, that had been so heavy through all its pride and resentment, felt lighter as he retraced his steps to The Acacias. He deemed himself quite fortunate in meeting Florine in the hall. He called to her hastily, and gave her the large package of books. “Take these to my wife, from me,” he said, in a softened voice. “Tell her I selected them especially for her reading, and hope she will find them interesting.” Florine took the books with a courtesy. She went slowly along the hall--very slowly. She did not mean to deliver the books, if she could help it.