Mollie Dane was a creature of impulse—­she never stopped to think.  One faint; suppressed cry, one bound forward, and she was in the young man’s arms.

“Hugh!  Hugh!  Hugh!” she cried, hysterically, clinging to him, “save me! save me!”

It was the first time she had ever called him other than Mr. Ingelow.  The young man’s arms closed around her as if they never would open again.

“My darling, I have come to save you!”

It had all passed in five seconds, but that short interval was long enough for Mollie’s womanly instincts to take the alarm.  She disengaged herself, reddening violently.  What would he think of her? and Mrs. Sharpe there, too!

“They have driven me nearly out of my senses!” she said, with a sort of choking sob.  “I don’t know what I am doing half the time, and I was so glad to see a friend’s familiar face, Mr. Ingelow.”

The blue eyes—­the eyes of a very child—­lifted themselves wistfully, deprecatingly, shining in tears.  Hugh Ingelow was touched to the core of his heart.

“I know it, my poor little girl!  It is enough to drive any one out of his senses.  But let us see if we can’t outwit the crafty Oleander.  Put your bonnet on and come.”

Mollie paused suddenly, and looked first at him, then at Mrs. Susan Sharpe, then back again.

“Well, Miss Dane,” said Mr. Ingelow, “you’re not afraid to come with me?”

“Afraid?” the blue eyes turned upon him with an eloquent glance.  “Oh, no!  But she—­Mrs. Sharpe—­”

“Is coming, too, of course, to play propriety,” laughed Hugh.  “Mrs. Sharpe,” turning to that demure lady, “put on your fixings and let us fly!”

Mrs. Sharpe nodded, and turned to go into her own room.

“There’s Miss Dane’s things,” she said, pointing to the pegs on which they hung.  “I’ll be back in two minutes.”

Mr. Ingelow took them down, and tenderly wrapped the long mantle about the slender, girlish figure.

“Are you sure you will be warm enough, Mollie?—­I beg your pardon—­Miss Dane.”

“Ah, call me Mollie!” the eloquent glance once more.  “How good you are to me, Mr. Ingelow!”

Hugh Ingelow winced as if she had stabbed him.

“I’m a wretch—­a brute—­a heartless monster!  That’s what I am, Mollie, and you’ll think so, too, some day—­that’s the worst of it.  Don’t wear that puzzled, frightened face, my darling!  Heaven knows I would die for you!”

She took his hand and kissed it.  Before either had time to speak, of course Mrs. Sharpe must happen in and spoil all.

But Hugh Ingelow, strange to say, looked rather relieved.  His face had flushed hotly under that innocent kiss, and then grown deathly pale.  He was very white when Mrs. Sharpe came in, and Mrs. Sharpe’s sharp eyes saw it.  The green glasses were gone.

“You look fit to die,” observed Mrs. Susan Sharpe, eying him.  “What’s the matter?”