There was a mysterious twinkle in Hugh’s eyes.

“Almost as miserable as at present, Mollie?”

“Yes; more so, if such a thing be possible.  It’s shocking to carry off a girl like that, and marry her against her will.  Nobody in this world, but an angel like myself, would ever forgive you.”

“Which is equivalent to saying you do forgive me.  Thousand thanks, Mrs. Ingelow.  Tell me, would you ever have forgiven Guy Oleander?”

“You know I wouldn’t,” Mollie answered, blushing beautifully at her new name; “but, then, you’re different.”

“How, Mollie?”

“Well—­well, you see I hate Doctor Oleander, and I don’t hate you.”

“You like me a little, Mollie, don’t you?  Ah, my darling, tell me so.  You know you never have yet.”

And then Mollie put her two arms round his neck, and held up her lovely, blushing face.

“Dear, dear Hugh!  I love you with all my heart!  And the happiest day of Mollie’s life is the day she finds you are Mollie’s husband!”

* * * * *

They were back in the carriage, driving through the golden mist of the sunny afternoon slowly back to the city.  Side by side, as happy lovers sit, they sat and talked, with—­oh, such infinitely blissful faces!

“And now,” said Mollie, “what are we going to do about it?  It will never answer to reveal this horrid little romance of ours to all the world.”

“Nor shall I. The world has no right to our secrets, and the Reverend Raymond Rashleigh will go to his grave with his little mystery unsolved.  But we will be married again, openly and before the world, and you, Mrs. Ingelow, will be under double obligation, because you will have promised to love, honor and obey twice.”

“And we’ll go and live out at Harlem, in the dear, romantic old house?” Mollie said, with sparkling eyes.

“Yes, if you wish it.  I will have it repaired and refurnished immediately, and, while the workmen are about it, we will be enjoying our wedding-tour.  For we must be married at once, Mollie,” with a comical look.

Mollie blushed and fidgeted, and laughed a little nervous laugh.

“This day fortnight will give you ample time for all the wedding garniture,” said the young man.  “You hear, Mollie—­a fortnight.”

Mollie sighed resignedly, “Of course, you will play the tyrant, as usual, and carry me off willy-nilly, if I don’t consent.  You must have everything your own way, I suppose.  And now—­I’m dying to know—­tell me, who is Sarah Grant?”

“An eminently respectable young woman, and the wife of my foster-brother.  She and her husband would do anything under the sun for me.  The husband was the coachman who drove you when you were abducted—­who witnessed the marriage, and who is driving us now.  Sarah’s a trump!  Didn’t she outwit Oleander nicely?”

“How?  Oh, Hugh,” clasping her hands, “I see it all—­the resemblance just puzzled me so.  Sarah Grant was Susan Sharpe.”