But Louise Barry was not idle. She foresaw all too plainly that the time was not far distant when Cecil Laurens’ love would break down his pride, and force him to seek reconciliation with his lovely young wife. “And when that hour comes I shall be lost, for Molly will betray me as soon as she can find any one to listen,” she said to herself. The yellow eyes gleamed with fear and anger. “It must not be!” she exclaimed, and a cruel purpose entered her mind. She sent for Florine Dabol that evening, and the maid came to her in disguise, as she always did. “Florine, you promised to rid me of that woman!” she exclaimed, reproachfully. The maid tossed her head. “_Ma foi_, what can I do? I have tried to make her desperate, so that she would run away or kill herself, but she will do neither. Had any one told me the half I have told her, I should have gone mad with jealousy. But this girl--I never saw such sadness, such dumb humility. She means to win him back by sheer humility and patience.” Louise shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “I never should have believed it of Molly Trueheart, she was always so fiery, yet she was good-natured, too, at her best. I could wind her around my little finger by cajolery.” “And now, Mademoiselle?” “I can not move her. She has grown stubborn through her love for him,” Louise answered, frowning. In a minute more she asked: “And the husband, Florine? Has he made any more overtures toward reconciliation?” Florine answered with what seemed almost malicious candor: “It is only by constant strategy I keep them apart. He is dying for her; one can see that plainly.” “He is a fool. He does not seem to know that there is another woman in the world!” exclaimed the heiress, whose clever plans for monopolizing Cecil had all failed. Molly might be lost to him through her treachery, but he never thought of Louise or any other. Florine stayed an hour and they revolved many plans before they decided on one. Then the maid hurried home, always fearful that Cecil should catch her off guard and make his way to Molly. But she found her young mistress alone as usual, for the other members of the family seldom entered the sick-room. Molly had fallen asleep on her sofa in her pretty white _négligé_, and her maid, who had an eye for beauty, gazed at her admiringly for some moments, noticing that a tear had fallen and was only half dried upon her cheek. “How pretty she is! No wonder monsieur is so ready to forgive her and love her again,” she thought. “I wonder that Miss Barry can have the heart--I shouldn’t, I know, but for the five hundred dollars. But I need that so bad, or I wouldn’t, no, I wouldn’t have been tempted to do such a deed. Whatever happens, I’ll bet all my money he’ll never marry that wicked Louise!” CHAPTER XXXIX.