he accompanied Mr. Gibson to the out-building, to a ring in the wall of which the surgeon’s horse was fastened. Molly was there too, sitting square and quiet on her rough little pony, waiting for her father. Her grave eyes opened large and wide at the close neighbourhood and evident advance of “the earl;” for to her little imagination the grey-haired, red-faced, somewhat clumsy man, was a cross between an archangel and a king.

“Your daughter, eh, Gibson?—nice little girl; how old? Pony wants grooming, though,” patting it as he talked. “What’s your name, my dear? He’s sadly behindhand with his rent, as I was saying; but, if he’s really ill, I must see after Sheepshanks, who is a hardish man of business. What’s his complaint? You’ll come to our school-scrimmage o Thursday, little girl—what’s-your-name? Mind you send her, or bring her, Gibson; and just give a word to your groom, for I’m sure that pony wasn’t singed last year; now, was he? Don’t forget Thursday, little girl—what’s-your-name?—it’s a promise between us, is it not?” And off the earl trotted, attracted by the sight of the farmer’s eldest son on the other side of the yard.

Mr. Gibson mounted, and he and Molly rode off. They did not speak for some time. Then she said, “May I go, papa?” in rather an anxious little tone of voice.

“Where, my dear?” said he, wakening up out of his own professional thoughts.

“To the Towers—on Thursday, you know. That gentleman” (she was shy of calling him by his title) “asked me.”

“Would you like it, my dear? It has always seemed to me rather a tiresome piece of gaiety—rather a tiring day, I mean—beginning so early—and the heat, and all that.”

“Oh, papa!” said Molly reproachfully.

“You’d like to go then, would you?”

“Yes; if I may!—He asked me, you know. Don’t you think I may?—he asked me twice over.”

“Well! we’ll see—yes! I think we can manage it, if you wish it so much, Molly.”

Then they were silent again. By-and-by, Molly said—

“Please, papa—I do wish to go—but I don’t care about it.”

“That’s rather a puzzling speech. But I suppose you mean you don’t care to go, if it will be any trouble to get you there. I can easily manage it, however; so you may consider it settled. You’ll want a white frock, remember; you’d better tell Betty you’re going, and she’ll see after making you tidy.”

Now, there were two or three things to be done by Mr. Gibson, before he could feel quite comfortable about Molly’s going to the festival at the Towers, and each of them involved a little trouble on his part. But he was very willing to gratify his little girl; so, the next day, he rode over to the Towers, ostensibly to visit some sick housemaid, but, in reality, to throw himself in my lady’s way, and get her to ratify Lord Cumnor’s invitation to Molly. He chose his time, with a little natural diplomacy; which, indeed, he had often to exercise in his intercourse with the great family. He rode into the stable-yard about twelve o’clock, a little before luncheon-time, and yet after the worry of opening the post-bag and discussing its contents was over. After he had put up his horse, he went in by the back-way to the house; the “House” on this side, the “Towers” at the front. He saw his patient, gave his directions to the house-keeper, and then went out, with a rare wild-flower in his hand, to find one of the ladies Tranmere in the garden, where, according to his hope and calculation, he came upon Lady Cumnor too—now talking to her daughter about the contents of an open letter which she held in her hand, now directing a gardener about certain bedding-out plants.