"Unhappily, the age of love-philters seems to have
passed. And now I will leave you for the present--time will work
wonders, I think. I must go back to New York; no one must suspect I have
left it for an hour. I will return in a day or two, and by that time I
trust you will no longer be in such a reckless frame of mind. I don't
want you to die by any means; you are a great deal too pretty and
piquant, and I love you far too well. Good-bye, my spirited little wife,
for a couple of days."
He bowed low and left the room, locking the door carefully. And when he
was gone Mollie drooped at once, leaning against the mantel, pale and
trembling, her hands over her face--alone with her despair.
CHAPTER XVII.
MIRIAM TO THE RESCUE.
An artist stood in his studio, overlooking busy, bright Broadway. He
stood before his easel, gazing in a sort of rapture at his own work. It
was only a sketch, a sketch worthy of a master, and its name was "The
Rose Before It Bloomed." A girl's bright, sweet face, looking out of a
golden aureole of wild, loose hair; a pair of liquid, starry, azure
eyes; a mouth like a rosebud, half pouting, half smiling.
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