Doctor Charley went up and spoke to her, but she did not answer nor look at him any more than if she had been a statue.
“What is it, Phebe?” he asked, distressedly, and the maid answered:
“Mr. Cecil handed me a letter to give her, and she’s been like that ever since she read it.”
He saw then that her hands were shut tight over a crushed letter, and tried gently to take it away, but she clung to it with convulsive strength.
Charley did not relish deceit and duplicity any better than Cecil did, and in his heart he knew that the girl had done wrong; but her trouble, her grief, her sad situation had aroused all the chivalry in his nature, and, profoundly moved, he exclaimed:
“Do not look so wretched, little sister. You are not quite friendless while Phebe and I are left to you. Come turn your eyes on mine, dear, and tell me what they have done to grieve you so.”
As if touched to the heart by his loving tone, Molly flashed her eyes upon his with a world of passion in them, and, opening wide her little hand, flung the letter at his feet.
“There, take it—your brother’s wedding gift to me;” she cried in concentrated scorn, bitterness, and anguish.
He knew that she meant him to read it, and after he had done so he stood silent before her dumbly questioning eyes knowing not what to say.
“Well,” she said, at last, and laughed low and strangely—so strangely that it chilled his blood, “well, Doctor Charley, what do you say about winning him back now?”