"It certainly is," Mr. Temple replied. "Those were magnificent horses, and everything about the affair indicated lavish expenditure. I don't quite understand the condition of things," he concluded reflectively.

"Mollie was richly dressed, too, and looked, as she always had a way of looking, like a queen--she has grown handsomer than ever," his wife pursued. "Did you notice the child and its nurse who were with her?" she went on, as if some startling thought had occurred to her. "Do you suppose the girl has married some rich widower and is queening it here in Washington society?"

Philip gave a violent start as his mother propounded this solution to the problem that was puzzling them all, and jealously regretting--as fickle human nature is p.r.o.ne to do when another shows appreciation of a discarded favorite--what he fondly imagined might have been his if he had chosen to press his suit.

"I have heard nothing of it if she has," said Mr. Temple, and looking not altogether comfortable in view of finding the Heatherfords again on an equal footing with himself. "The last I knew, Mr. Heatherford had secured a position here with a fair salary, and they were living comfortably, but in a very humble way compared with their former circ.u.mstances. I will make some inquires to-morrow and ascertain, if possible, just how they are situated."

Philip did not join in the conversation, but he secretly resolved that he would himself ascertain the truth about Mollie that very day. He would seek her in the location to which he had always addressed his letters, as long as he had written her, and if he failed to find her there he would search the city over for her.

Neither Mr. Temple nor his mother had known of his correspondence with her, and the latter had flattered herself that she had been very tactful in managing to break up certain "foolish" relations between the two that were liable to prove very awkward.

The family had been in Washington only a few days, and, although Philip had thought of Mollie in an indifferent kind of way, he had not felt any special interest to look her up. Now, however, the sight of her radiant beauty, together with her cool and dignified bearing and the fear that possibly she had dared to marry another, while he a.s.sumed to have a claim--however indefinite--upon her, fired anew his old-time love for her and aroused a fierce jealousy within him.

Accordingly, after he had lunched, he immediately set forth upon his quest for her, going directly to the address where his letters had been sent.

Eliza, of course, answered his ring, but informed him that her young mistress was not at home--that, however, she would probably return that evening. He then inquired for Mr. Heatherford, and was told, with a non-committal air, that he was "comfortable."

"Has he been ill?" questioned Philip, with some surprise.

"Yes, sah; Marsa Heatherford have been very ill." Eliza quietly returned, but without volunteering any information regarding the nature of that gentleman's malady, while she eyed Philip curiously, not half-liking his looks nor his arrogant bearing.

The young man, however, went away, smoothing his ruffled plumage with no little satisfaction. Mollie was not married; probably, he a.s.sumed, she was simply a day governess in some wealthy family, and that would account for her being out for a drive with the child and its nurse in the elegant carriage he had seen that morning.

He returned to his hotel quite elated and promising himself that he would resume his old relations--to a certain extent--with Mollie, and thus help to pa.s.s some otherwise dull hours during his sojourn in the city.

In spite of the secrecy which Mollie had desired to preserve regarding her exciting adventure of the previous night, the evening papers contained a thrilling account of a bold attempt at robbery, and how it had been thwarted by the remarkable heroism of a young lady, who had held the would-be burglar paralyzed at the muzzle of a revolver until the police were summoned to her aid and captured the criminal.

The name of the gentleman whose residence had been entered was given; but Mollie's name was considerately withheld. She was simply designated as Monsieur Lamonti's private secretary, who had been spending a couple of days in the house as chaperon for the gentleman's little granddaughter during his absence on a business trip to New York.

Monsieur Lamonti returned, as he had planned, that same evening, and was greatly exercised in view of what had occurred.

"Mademoiselle has shown herself very brave," he said, after having freely discussed the matter and regarding her admiringly, "but I tremble when I think of the danger that threatened her. And there was much of value in the safe, too--a large sum of money, besides many valuable jewels. Ah! but you have been my good angel many times, mademoiselle,"

he concluded in a grateful tone.

He opened the safe and showed her the jewels, and, though she had seen many costly articles of jewelry, she was almost dazzled by the beauty and value of the collection before her.

"We will not keep them here any longer," said Monsieur Lamonti, as he returned them to their places. "I could not bear to send them away because my dear ones had worn them," he added with a regretful sigh, "but no one must ever be subjected again to such peril as threatened you last night."

And the following morning he deposited his treasure in a safety-vault, where no burglar would attempt to seek them.

Shortly after Monsieur Lamonti's arrival Mollie was sent home in his carriage, that gentleman slipping into her hands a box containing a dozen pairs of elegant kid gloves, as she left.

"It is nothing," he said with a deprecatory shrug in reply to her thanks; "it was only to give myself the pleasure of buying something for some one."

Eliza welcomed her young mistress with a beaming face when she appeared, and she found that her father had received excellent care during her absence; but she had not been in the house half an hour, when Philip Wentworth again made his appearance.

Mollie received him courteously, though somewhat coldly; but he ignored her lack of cordiality, and, catching both her hands in his, fervently exclaimed:

"At last! Mollie, we meet again! It has seemed an age since I saw you in Boston. Did your servant tell you of my call directly after lunch?"

"Yes; Eliza gave me your card on my return. I have been away spending a couple of days with some friends," Mollie quietly explained, as she released her hands and indicated a chair for him, then seated herself upon a small sofa near him.

"Perhaps you will think me very persistent and impatient to make two calls in one day," Philip observed apologetically, and feeling a trifle disconcerted by the girl's perfect composure; "but I have been wild to learn why you ceased writing to me so suddenly--I have not heard from you for the longest while!"

Mollie lifted a look of surprise to him.

"I think you have transposed the situation," she said, a faint smile curving her lips. "I have answered every letter that I have received from you."

"Ah! then I have wronged you; forgive me! And my last letter must have miscarried, for when I did not hear from you I began to wonder if it could have contained anything to offend you," Philip returned, but he flushed beneath the clear, searching eyes looking steadily into his, as he uttered the lie. Then unceremoniously waiving the uncomfortable topic, he added with animation:

"But tell me something about yourself now, Mollie. I do not need to ask if you are well; for your blooming appearance speaks for itself; but how is your father, and what have you been doing to amuse yourself during all these long months?"

Again that faint smile wreathed Mollie's lips, and there was a suspicion of irony in it, for his question was suggestive of the tenor of his own way of pa.s.sing his time.

"'To amuse myself'," she repeated in a peculiar tone. "I really have had very little time to devote to amus.e.m.e.nt of any kind during the last year and a half. For the first few months I was busy keeping house for papa, for we were trying to be economical and kept no servant. Then he was taken ill."

"Yes, I remember you wrote me at one time that he was ill," Philip interposed, "but I supposed that he had recovered long ago."

"My father is a hopeless invalid--the physicians tell me that he will never be any better," said Mollie sadly.

"Can that be possible?" queried her companion, and trying to throw a proper amount of sympathy into his tone, but secretly wondering how they managed to keep the wolf from the door.

"Of course, when his health gave out he lost his situation, and his income stopped," Mollie gravely resumed, "and I was obliged to seek some employment. I have a position as private secretary to Monsieur Lamonti, a French gentleman of some prominence here in Washington--possibly you may have heard of him."

"Ah! yes, I have," said Philip with elevated eyebrows, for the wealthy Frenchman had been pointed out to him, and now he understood how Mollie had happened to be riding in that elegant turnout that morning. Then he added: "I am sorry to learn that Mr. Heatherford's case is so serious."

"Yes; papa has failed sadly; he seldom recognizes even me, now, while his hands have become so useless that he has to be fed like a child,"

Mollie returned with starting tears.

"That must make it very hard for you, dear," Philip responded with a tender inflection; "you must find it very irksome, reared as you have been, to confine yourself to a position and the care of an invalid."

"I do not," she returned brightly, though she straightened herself a trifle and flushed at his term of endearment. "I thoroughly enjoy my position, and if papa could only be well once more, I should feel perfectly happy with my work and the consciousness that I am really of some practical use in the world."

She looked so proud and animated and bore herself with such an air of dignity and self-reliance that the young man told himself she was a hundredfold more lovely and attractive than she had ever been.

But, at the same time, there was an unmistakable atmosphere about her that held him at arm's length and made him feel as if she had drifted so far apart from him as to have put him entirely out of her life.

The very thought enraged him, and an insatiate desire to conquer these conditions and make himself necessary to her happiness took possession of him. He flushed hotly as he suddenly bent nearer to her.

"Mollie, I cannot bear to know that you are working for wages," he said pa.s.sionately.

Mollie laughed out musically, although she drew herself away from him with an unmistakable chill in her manner.

"Pray, do not be disturbed," she said lightly, "for I a.s.sure you that I enjoy my 'wages,' as you term them, immensely."

"But the humiliation of it," he persisted hotly; "to think of it!--you, who are fit to queen it anywhere, becoming the servant of any one!"

"I have no sense of humiliation, Philip. I frankly protest that I never in my life experienced a more comforting sense of self-respect than at the present time," Mollie spiritedly rejoined, and with a warning sparkle in her eyes.