That day wore on, long, drearily, endlessly, it seemed to poor Mollie.
Its dull course was broken, as usual, by Sarah fetching the daily meals;
and it ended, and night came, and still Mollie had not spoken.

Another day dawned, and its dawning brought the climax. She had passed a
sleepless night, and awoke feverish, unrefreshed, and utterly desperate.

"If it was death instead of marriage I had to undergo," said Mollie to
herself, "I should prefer it to this slow torture. It's horrid to yield,
but it's a great deal more horrid to hold out. I'll yield."

Accordingly, when Sarah came up with the morning meal, Miss Dane
promptly addressed her:

"Sarah, is your master in the house?"

"Not at present, miss."

"Do you expect him?"

"Oh, yes, miss! He comes every day."

"Is he coming up here no more until I send for him?"

"I think not, miss. He is a great deal too polite to force himself upon
a lady."

A glance of withering scorn from Mollie.