It was all over, like some dismal dream, and Mollie, shivering under her shawl, took one last backward look at the grave of her mother, and was hurried back to the carriage by Hugh Ingelow.
But she was so deathly white and cold, and she trembled with such nervous shivering, that the young man drew her to him in real alarm.
"You are going to be ill, Mollie," he said. "You are ill."
"Am I?" said Mollie, helplessly. "I don't know. I hope not. I want to go away so much."
"So much? To leave me, Mollie?"
Mollie lifted her heavy eyes, filled with unutterable reproach.
"You don't care," she said. "It is nothing to you. And it should be nothing," suddenly remembering herself and sitting up. "Please let me go, Mr. Ingelow. We must part, and it is better so."
Mr. Ingelow released her without a word. Mollie sat up, drew a letter from her pocket, and handed it to him. He saw it was addressed to Carl Walraven, and looked at her inquiringly.
"I wish you to read it," she said.
It was unsealed. He opened it at once, and read: