She was lying on a lounge in a strange room, and Mrs. Susan Sharpe was seated in an elbow-chair before her, nodding drowsily.  At Mollie’s exclamation she opened her eyes.

“Where are we?” asked the young lady, still bewildered.

“In Mr. Ingelow’s studio,” responded Mrs. Susan Sharpe.

“Oh, Broadway!  Then we are safe in New York?”

The uproar in the great thoroughfare below answered her effectually.  She rose up and walked to one of the windows.  Life was all astir on the noisy pave.  The crowds coming and going, the rattle and clatter were unspeakably delightful, after the dead stagnation of her brief imprisonment.

“How did we come here?” asked Mollie, at length, turning round.  “The last I remember I was dropping asleep in the buggy.”

“And you stayed asleep—­sound—­all the way,” replied Mrs. Sharpe.  “You slept like the dead.  Mr. Ingelow lifted you out and carried you up here, and you never woke.  I was asleep, too; but he made no ado about rousing me up.  You were quite another matter.”

Mollie blushed.

“How soundly I must have slept!  What’s the hour, I wonder?”

“About half past eight.”

“Is that all?  And where is Mr. Ingelow?”

“Gone to get his breakfast and send us ours.  Hadn’t you better wash and comb your hair, Miss Dane?  Here is the lavatory.”

Miss Dane refreshed herself by a cold ablution, and combed out her beautiful, shining tresses.

As she flung them back, a quick, light step came flying upstairs, a clear voice sounded, whistling:  “My Love is But a Lassie Yet.”

“That’s Mr. Ingelow,” said Susan Sharpe, decisively.

The next instant came a light rap at the door.

“The room is thine own,” said Mollie, in French.  “Come in.”

“Good-morning, ladies,” Mr. Ingelow said, entering, handsome and radiant.  “Miss Dane, I trust you feel refreshed after your journey?”

“And my long sleep?  Yes, sir.”

“And ready for breakfast?”

“Quite ready.”

“That is well, for here it comes.”

As he spoke, a colored personage in a white apron entered, staggering under the weight of a great tray.

“Breakfast for three,” said Mr. Ingelow, whipping off the silver covers.  “Set chairs, Sam.  Now, then, ladies, I intended to breakfast down at the restaurant; but the temptation to take my matinal meal in such fair company was not to be resisted.  I didn’t try to resist it, and—­here we are!”

Mollie sat beside him, too pretty to tell, and smiling like an angel.  At Seventeen, one night is enough to make us as happy as a seraph.  For golden-haired, blue-eyed Mollie earth held no greater happiness, just then, than to sit by Hugh Ingelow’s side and bask in the light of his smile.

“Delightfully suggestive all this, eh?” said the artist, helping his fair neighbor bountifully.

And Mollie blushed “celestial, rosy red.”