“God pardon my sin, and take me out of the world!” she prayed, despairingly, and there came over her a great wonder at herself that she had come to such a terrible pass.
“Am I dreaming? Is this indeed Molly Trueheart who a year ago was a child with no higher aim than fun and frolic, with a heart as light as thistledown? Great Heaven, why did I ever let them send me to Ferndale? Nothing but despair and disgrace has come of it, and I have ruined my life forever for a few months of bitter-sweet bliss,” she moaned, flinging up her hands and beating the air impatiently in impotent despair.
The door opened and Phebe entered with a tempting breakfast arranged on a silver service.
But Molly pushed the dainty viands loathingly away.
“As if I could eat while my poor heart is breaking,” she said, with pathetic eyes, and just then there came a light tap at the door.
Phebe sat down the tray and found one of the servants waiting.
“A lady to see Mrs. Laurens,” he said. “I told her she was sick, but she insisted, and—” he broke off with a start, for the visitor was just behind him.
“I knew Mrs. Laurens would not mind, because I am such an old friend,” she twittered, insolently, and pushed past Phebe into the room.
It was Louise Barry, handsome and smiling, in a rich costume of dark silk and velvet.
“Oh, Molly, in bed yet? Luxury has taught you bad habits,” she exclaimed with a light laugh.