Then she caught sight of Molly, and after a moment’s hesitation sailed forward. “My dear girl, and so you are well enough to be out at last,” she exclaimed, sweetly, holding out her jeweled hand. Molly did not look at the offered hand, did not open her lips, did not even bend her head. She was looking at old Mrs. Barry who did indeed appear older and grayer than ever with new lines of care and age on her homely face. The old shame and pain at deceiving the aged gentlewoman swelled again at Molly’s heart as it had done a year ago at Ferndale. She rose impetuously, pushed aside Louise with a touch of her slender hand, and went quickly over to Mrs. Barry’s side. The old lady looked up angrily, but Molly did not shrink as she would have done at Cecil’s frown. She stood before the grim old dame like a child that has done wrong, and exclaimed impetuously like a child: “I am sorry I deceived you, Mrs. Barry, I was sorry all the time. Sometimes I could hardly go on with the deceit. Won’t you please forgive me?” Louise had followed her across the room. She saw Mrs. Barry’s hard face change and soften, and gave a gasp of terror. Then, affecting not to have noticed Molly’s words, she exclaimed: “Come, Aunt Thalia; we shall be late for the opera. Excuse us, Molly, but we only came by to see how you were, and as you are so much better, we must hurry. Good-bye all;” and without ceremony she hustled Mrs. Barry past Molly, and out of the room. Molly stood gazing after them like one dazed, until she felt a hand touch her shoulder. It was Cecil’s father, who said, low but firmly: “Sit down, child, and do not look so frightened.” He pushed her gently into a chair, the same chair that Mrs. Barry had sat in, and she remained there quietly a moment; then, feeling their wondering, disapproving glances burning her sensitive face, she rose to go. She had an impression that Cecil opened the door for her, that he stood gazing after her as she moved down the hall. She felt the scorn of his glance keenly. “Surely I did not do wrong,” she thought. “I had acted badly to that poor old lady, and I thought I must ask her forgiveness; but Louise hustled her out before she could answer me. She does not want her to forgive me; she does not want me to have a single friend.” She opened her door and went in, thinking sadly that, only for her promise to Doctor Charley, she would not try to mingle with the family again. “They hate me--all of them; they will never forgive me for being the daughter of an actress, instead of a Barry. Perhaps if they knew that my father was Sir Edward Trueheart’s son, they would respect me more. But I shall not tell them. I can be proud, too; and if they can not love me and forgive me for myself, I will keep my pleasant secret.” Florine looked at her narrowly. “Madame, I can not help thinking you look worse every time you leave your room. I am sure you are not strong enough to bear company,” she said, with pretended solicitude.