"Not if you will have to rob this; I would not have a single blossom disarranged," said Clifford, as he eyed the bouquet admiringly.

"Oh, no; I have quant.i.ties more," said Mollie, as she gently released the hand which he had unconsciously been holding and turned to a table which there was a large gla.s.s dish filled with flowers.

She bent over them and paused to consider what she would offer him.

Presently she detached three small crimson moss-rosebuds with a single spray of green leaves and held them up before him.

"Will you wear these?" she queried.

A great shock went coursing through Clifford as he took them from her white gloved hands and regarded them with a yearning look.

Then his eyes--almost black now with the intensity of his emotion--sought her face.

"May I?" he breathed, "may I wear them with the a.s.surance of what they express? Do you know the language of the red moss-rosebud, Mollie?"

A scarlet flood leaped to the fair girl's temples as she realized, too late, the significance of her gift; while his use of her given name, for the first time, set every pulse to bounding wildly. She lifted a startled look to his face; then as quickly her golden lashes dropped upon her flaming cheeks.

"Yes, I know," she murmured, "but I did not think of it when I chose them."

CHAPTER X.

MONSIEUR LAMONTI'S DEATH.

"I know you did not, love," Clifford returned as he bent forward and gathered both her hands into his, "and it was an unfair question, I am afraid. But I love you, dear--I love you. You must have seen it, you must have read it for weeks, for my every thought has been of and for you, and sometimes I have even dared to think that your thought has been responsive to mine, a.s.suring me that I had won your heart, and that my future is to be crowned with the supreme blessing of your love. You do not turn from me--you do not take your hands from mine--may I hope, Mollie? Tell me that you love me--that you will be my wife when I shall have won a position worthy to offer you. May I wear the buds as the token of your a.s.sent? Oh, my darling, where can I find language to tell you all that is in my heart? Tell me--tell me!"

His pa.s.sionate emotion moved her deeply, although his voice had been raised scarcely above a whisper. His fond words, his rich, thrilling tones were like the solemn notes of an organ. She never had been so supremely happy in her life as at that moment, and yet she wanted to weep.

But her whole heart went out to him. She lifted her eyes to his and they were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears.

"Yes, you know--you must have long known that I love you, Clifford,"

she whispered.

He could not speak for the moment. He was white, even to his lips, with joy that was beyond words. He lifted her hands and laid them about his neck; then his arms slid around her graceful form and drew her to his breast, where he held her close--so close that she could both feel and hear the throbbing of his heart.

They stood thus for a few moments, speechless from the consciousness of the sacred union. At length Clifford gently released her and, fondly placing one hand beneath her chin, lifted her face and scanned it earnestly.

"Tears?" he said softly.

"Yes," said Mollie, with a shy, sweet laugh, "my cup is so full it cannot hold all my joy, and some had to brim over."

"Sweetheart!" he murmured, but he still continued to study her face with a look that seemed to have something of wonderment in it.

"Why do you look at me like that? Of what are you thinking?" Mollie inquired.

"I am wondering how it would have been with us if Mr. Heatherford had never lost his millions," said the young man reflectively.

"Clifford!" cried Mollie, in a tone of reproach, "you know I should have loved you just the same; but I am glad that I am poor, for I am awfully afraid if I had not been, you would have been too proud to tell me what you have told me to-night."

"Suppose such had been the case?" he smilingly questioned.

"I--I think I should have made you confess it somehow," she replied with an imperative little tap of her foot, "or"--with a gleam of mischief in her happy eyes, "I might have uns.e.xed myself and proposed to you--oh! I am afraid I almost did as it is," she concluded, flushing again rosily as she thought of the rosebuds.

He laughed joyously and caught her to him again; then, bending his handsome head, he kissed her softly, reverently on her lips.

"I shall never wear anything but the red moss-rose after this," he said, "and now after you have fastened them in for me, we must go, or we shall be late for the opera. And I nearly forget, dear--I have tickets for to-morrow night to see Willard in the 'Professor's Love-story.'"

"Aren't you getting dissipated, Cliff?" questioned Mollie chidingly.

"Wouldn't you like to see the play?"

Mollie took the rosebuds daintily in her white-gloved fingers, shot a sly glance up at him as she kissed them, then slipped them deftly into the b.u.t.tonhole and fastened them there.

"Yes. Willard is fine," she said, "but I'm afraid that I am not quite so deeply interested in the 'Professor's Love-story' just at present as I am in my own."

"My darling!" said Faxon in a voice that was tremulous with his new, great happiness as he pressed his lips upon her white forehead. Then he lifted a beautiful opera-cloak that was hanging over a chair, and laid it over her shoulders.

It was made of white brocaded satin, trimmed with ermine, and her golden-crowned head, with the crescent of flashing diamonds rising out of its snowy whiteness, made him think of some rare and beautiful flower.

"My own, you look like a queen in your coronation-robe, and I feel like a king who has just been crowned," he fondly murmured as he fastened the silver clasp beneath her chin.

"You are a king, Cliff--my king," Mollie softly responded.

A minute later they were rolling swiftly up-town, sitting hand in hand and feeling as if an enchanted future lay before them.

The house was filled and brilliant with a first-night audience as they stepped within their box, and many a gla.s.s was leveled at the peerlessly beautiful girl and her handsome escort, with expressions of mingled admiration, wonder, and curiosity. As it happened, Philip Wentworth and his mother were located in the box directly opposite, and both gave a start of undisguised surprise as Mollie took her seat, for they recognized her instantly.

"Why, Phil!" exclaimed Mrs. Temple, "she really looks like the old-time Mollie, doesn't she? She still has her diamonds, I see, and I suppose no one here would believe she had ever worn that dress before. I recognize it, however, although I must confess it looks just as fresh as it did when she arrived from Paris. She is downright beautiful, Phil! Oh, dear!

I wish they hadn't lost their money. Do you know who that is with her?

It seems as if I had seen him before."

"He's that cad Faxon--blast him!" Philip replied, his face flaming with sudden anger and shame.

"Why do you call him that, Phil?--he certainly looks like a gentleman.

Oh, by the way, isn't he the young man who worked his own way through Harvard and took the second honor in your cla.s.s?"

"Yes."

"And he is the one who had that ring of Mollie's. Did you ever find out how he came by it?"

"No." He preferred to lie about it rather than explain Faxon's heroic deed.

"Mercy, Phil, how monosyllabic you are," said Mrs. Temple as she shot a curious sidelong glance at him. "I fully intended to ask Mollie about it when she returned, but I never thought of it. Have you any idea how he became acquainted with Mollie?"

"How should I know?" queried Philip evasively, but he found great difficulty in controlling himself sufficiently to preserve a respectful tone, and his hands were so tightly clenched that the nails actually cut the palms.

The sight of the couple opposite had brought vividly to his mind the night when he had overtaken and insulted Mollie upon the street and Faxon had come to the rescue. He had never seen either of them since, but he had felt deeply humiliated every time he had thought of the affair, and his old hatred of Clifford increased a hundred-fold in view of the indignity, merited though it was, that he had suffered at his hands.