“I must wait. He will come to me here,” she murmured, sinking back into her chair and trembling with joyful agitation.
Phebe hurried in presently with a beaming face.
“Oh, my dear, your husband is come!” she exclaimed, joyfully.
“Yes, I know—my heart told me,” said the eager girl. “Oh, Phebe, how soon shall I see him? Will he come to me here?”
“Of course, my pet. But try to be patient, Mrs. Laurens. He is with his father and mother now.”
“I ought to be first!” Molly cried, with kindling cheeks, then the flush faded quickly as it had come, and she murmured, plaintively: “but I can not expect that now. I must be content with the slightest favors. I shall be thankful only to see him once again.”
She looked wistfully at Phebe.
“Am I very thin? Do I look very ill?” she asked, anxiously.
“Do not bother about your looks, my dear. No one could expect you to look well in your condition and after such an illness,” the maid cried, soothingly.
“But I must not look ugly in Cecil’s eyes. He used to think me so pretty. Oh, Phebe, can’t you fix me a little so that I shall not look so ill? And draw the curtains, and soften the light. It shines too brightly on my faded face.”