“My dear Sir Roger, I am proud and happy beyond expression.  Mollie may consider herself a fortunate girl to escape the wild young scapegraces who dangle after her, and find a husband in a man like you.  She stands alone in the world, poor child, without father or mother.  You, Sir Roger, must be all the world to her now.”

“Heaven helping me, I will!” the old man said, earnestly.

“My whole life shall be devoted to her happiness.”

“And when is it to be?” Mr. Walraven asked, with a smile.  “I presume you and Mollie have settled that?”

“In two months.  It will be spring then; and we can start at once for Wales.  I long to show my fairy bride old Trajenna Castle.”

“We shall miss her very much:”  and Carl Walraven sighed in good earnest as he said it.  “She has been the sunlight of our home.  My poor old mother will almost break her heart:  but it is for Mollie’s good, and all selfish considerations must give way.  You are aware, Sir Roger, she has no dower?”

“She needs none,” Sir Roger said, proudly.  “My fortune is princely; her settlements shall be as ample as though she were heiress to millions.  I believe there is nothing more, Mr. Walraven, and so let us rejoin the ladies.”

The news spread like wildfire—­the avenue was electrified.  Mollie Dane—­little, coquettish Mollie Dane—­sprung from nobody knew where, to carry off the great Welsh baronet, in spite of them all.  The man must be in his dotage!

Mr. Walraven’s antecedents were mysterious enough, in all conscience; but the antecedents of this wild ward of his were ten times more so.  But, in spite of all, the engagement was an accomplished fact.

Every day, beneath the baleful glare of angry female eyes, Mollie Dane went riding and driving and walking with the stately, white-haired old millionaire, who bent over her as obsequiously as though she were a duchess born.

The women might go wild with envy, the men go mad with jealousy; but the days and the weeks went on, and the fairy grew more radiantly beautiful with each.  And the wedding-day came, and the guests were bidden, and all was ready, on a scale of unparalleled magnificence.  And who was to know the wedding would never be?

Mollie’s bridal night!  The big brown-stone mansion was one blaze of light.  The ceremony was to take place in the lofty drawing-room, and be followed by a ball.  This somewhat obsolete way of doing things was by the express desire of Sir Roger, and on the morrow they were to start by steamer for the old land.  It was all one to Mollie, and Mr. and Mrs. Walraven acquiesced in every wish of the Welshman.

The hour fixed for the ceremony was ten o’clock.  It was nearly nine, and up in her own room the bride stood, under the hands of her maid, robed for the sacrifice.

It was a sacrifice, though giddy Mollie had never thought it so before.  Now, when it was too late, her heart began to fail her.