She waited a while in the shadow of the steps to see if her mistress would come forth again, but seeing that she did not, took her way hastily back to The Acacias and went in by the servants’ entrance, the key of which she had carried when she went out. As she did so the clock in the hall chimed the midnight hour. “I will run up to her room and see if she has left him a note,” she said. To her amazement, as she entered the dimly lighted upper hall, she encountered Cecil Laurens, who had just let himself in with his latch-key. He looked haggard and wretched in the dim light. “Florine!” he exclaimed, in surprise, at sight of the cloaked and bonneted figure. “Yes, sir. I have been to the theater. My mistress gave me this evening out,” answered the artful maid, thinking that she could turn this seemingly awkward _contretemps_ to good account. He hesitated a moment, then asked, eagerly: “Do you think that Mrs. Laurens is awake yet, Florine?” “I expect so, sir. She does not sleep well at night for fretting and crying.” The words struck his heart with pain and reproach. “‘Fretting and crying,’ and no one to comfort her, poor child!” he thought, and held up his hand. “Wait,” he said. He drew pencil and paper from his pocket, and wrote rapidly some words that had been burning his heart all day: “My darling wife, forgive me for that cruel letter. My love has conquered pride, anger and resentment. Let us throw the past behind us, and begin life anew. May I come to you and hear the story I once refused to listen to from you? YOUR OWN CECIL.” He folded the note hurriedly across and put it into Florine’s hand with a gold piece. “That’s for your kindness to my wife, my good girl,” he said. “Now, if she is awake, give her the note at once. If she is asleep, let her have it as soon as she awakens. I shall wait here a few minutes to hear from you.” Florine courtesied low, took the note and disappeared in a moment inside that door on which Cecil’s wistful eyes were eagerly fastened. Then she thrust the note into her pocket and looked eagerly around the room. “Ah!” she exclaimed. There was a note, as she had expected--a note not even sealed. It lay upon a little table at the head of the bed where Florine usually placed the glass of water Molly drank at night. Florine read the brief note hastily and without compunction. Then she put it back upon the table and opened the door, beckoning excitedly to Cecil, who was waiting at the stair-way. He came hurriedly, believing that Molly had summoned him, eager, like himself, for a reconciliation. He stepped quickly across the threshold, and Florine panted, wildly: “Ah, monsieur! what does it mean? She--my mistress--is not here!” She ran into the dressing-room and bath-room and back again, followed by Cecil, startled and anxious. “_Ma foi_, I have feared this--that she would run away!” Florine muttered, just loud enough for him to overhear.