"I think I would at once accept a man who proposed to me by telegraph," says Molly, with pretty affectation. "It would show such flattering haste,—such a desire for a kind reply. Remember,"—with her finger under the lap of the envelope,—"if the last surmise proves correct I have almost said yes."
She breaks open the paper, and, smiling still, daintily unfolds the enclosure.
What a few words!—two or three strokes of the pen. Yet what a change they make in the beautiful, debonnaire countenance! Black as ink they stand out beneath her stricken eyes. Oh, cruel hand that penned them so abruptly!
"Come home at once. Make no delay. Your brother is dead."
Gray as death grows her face; her body turns to stone. So altered is she in this brief space, that when she raises her head some shrink away from her, and some cry out.
"Oh, Molly! what is it?" asks Lady Stafford, panic-stricken, seizing her by the arm; while Luttrell, scarcely less white than the girl herself, comes unconsciously forward.
Molly's arms fall to her sides; the telegram flutters to the floor.
"My brother is dead," she says, in a slow, unmeaning tone.
"He is dead," she says again, in a rather higher, shriller voice, receiving no response from the awed group that surrounds her. Their silence evidently puzzles her. Her large eyes wander helplessly over all their faces, until at length they fall on Luttrell's. Here they rest, knowing she has found one that loves her.
"Teddy—Teddy!" she cries, in an agonized tone of desolation; then, throwing up her arms wildly toward heaven, as though imploring pity, she falls forward senseless into his outstretched arms.