Mr. Carl Walraven heard this sad account of his wife's health with a
grimly fixed countenance. He looked as though he had passed a restless
night himself, and looked worn and haggard and hollow-eyed in the bright
morning sunshine.
Mollie, on the other hand, was blooming and brilliant as the goddess
Hebe. Past troubles sat lightly on buoyant Mollie as dew-drops on a
rose. She looked rather anxiously at her guardian as the girl quitted
the breakfast-room.
"You didn't mention Blanche's illness, guardy. Tea or chocolate this
morning?"
"A cup of tea. I didn't mention her illness because I wasn't aware of
it. I haven't had the pleasure of seeing Madame Blanche since we parted
in the dining-room last night."
"Indeed!" said Mollie, stirring her chocolate slowly.
"And what's more," pursued the master of the house, "I don't care if I
never see her again."
"Dear me, guardy! Strong language, isn't it?"
"It is truthful language, Mollie. Sleeping on a thing sometimes alters
its complexion materially. Last evening I concluded to let things blow
over and keep up appearances before the world.
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