The words roused him into action. He shook himself free from the indignant silence in which he had been contemplating his brother’s cruelty, and coming close to her took both her hands in his.
He knew that he must put some hope into that agonized young heart or she would die or go mad of this awful shock. In that low, strange laugh had sounded the echo of incipient madness.
“My brother was cruel, very cruel, I can not deny that, dear Molly,” he said, sadly, feeling ashamed of Cecil for his hardness when the girl was so low and ill.
She clung to him like a child, and said, in a strained whisper:
“You see I sent Phebe to bring him to me. I wanted to explain—all. He would not listen—he went away—and sent me that!” her eye indicating the letter with a glance of infinite loathing.
“I shall burn this, and you must forget it,” he said, decisively; but she answered:
“Burn it if you will. The words are engraven on my heart!”
Very gravely and tenderly he said:
“Try to forget it, Molly, for Cecil will be ashamed soon that he wrote such cruel words to you. Do as I told you, dear. Try to win him back in spite of coldness, in spite of neglect. These will not last, for Cecil can not succeed in putting you from his heart, and in a few short months you will have a claim on him that he can not deny and that must break down every barrier of his pride.”
She hid her face against his sleeve, and whispered: