“Louise, are you sure the man is not an old lover of yours?” he asked in a tone divided between jest and earnest.
“I have never had a lover but you!” she replied, fondly, and lifting her dark eyes to his face that he might read the love written there.
“Darling!” he whispered, rapturously, as he led her to a seat.
Every one had run out into the hall to look after the maniac, and they were for a moment alone.
Molly whispered, anxiously:
“Dear Cecil, don’t you pity that poor fellow? He is not rich like you, and he can not find work enough to support a wife! She is growing tired of waiting, and he will lose her, unless something happens in his favor. You will help him, Cecil? You’ll find him some work?”
So earnest was the plaint that tears rushed into the dark eyes, and Cecil, moved to sympathy, answered ardently:
“I believe you are an angel, Louise, as I once heard that unlucky fellow call you. Certainly, I’ll try to find him some work; but I doubt if I’ll be doing him a good turn helping him to marry selfish Molly Trueheart. And then, you know, we leave tomorrow on our wedding-tour, and shall not know where to find him, as he has run away.”
“I know where to write to him. I have his address; and, oh, Cecil, I shall love you more than ever for this!” Molly cried, impetuously.
“Thanks, my little love. With that reward in view, I shall strive earnestly to set your forlorn friend up in business before we leave tomorrow,” Cecil Laurens replied, gayly, but tenderly and earnestly.