“My head aches so,” said Molly, lifting her heavy eyes wistfully.

“Oh, dear, how tiresome!” said Clare, still in her sweet gentle voice, not at all as if she were angry, only expressing an obvious truth. Molly felt very guilty and very unhappy. Clare went on, with a shade of asperity in her tone: “You see, I don’t know what to do with you here, if you don’t eat enough to enable you to walk home. And I’ve been out for these three hours, trapesing about the grounds till I’m as tired as can be, and I’ve missed my lunch and all.” Then, as if a new idea had struck her, she said—“You lie back in that seat for a few minutes, and try to eat the bunch of grapes; and I’ll wait for you, and just be eating a mouthful mean-while. You are sure you don’t want this chicken?”

Molly did as she was bid, and leant back, picking languidly at the grapes, and watching the good appetite with which the lady ate up the chicken and jelly, and drank the glass of wine. She was so pretty and so graceful in her deep mourning, that even her hurry in eating, as if she was afraid of some one coming to surprise her in the act, did not keep her little observer from admiring her in all she did.

“And now, darling, are you ready to go?” said she, when she had eaten up everything on the tray. “Oh, come; you have nearly finished your grapes; that’s a good girl. Now, if you will come with me to the side- entrance, I will take you up to my own room, and you shall lie down on the bed for an hour or two; and, if you have a good nap, your headache will be gone.”

So they set off, Clare carrying the empty tray, rather to Molly’s shame; but the child had enough work to drag herself along, and was afraid of offering to do anything more. The “side-entrance” was a flight of steps leading up from a private flower-garden into a private matted hall, or anteroom, out of which many doors opened, and in which were deposited the light garden-tools and the bows and arrows of the young ladies of the house. Lady Cuxhaven must have seen their approach, for she met them in this hall as soon as they came in.

“How is she now?” she asked; then glancing at the plates and glasses, she added, “Come, I think there can’t be much amiss! You’re a good old Clare, but you should have let one of the men fetch that tray in; life in such weather as this is trouble enough of itself.”

Molly could not help wishing that her pretty companion would have told Lady Cuxhaven that she herself had helped to finish up the ample luncheon; but no such idea seemed to come into her mind. She only said—“Poor dear! she is not quite the thing yet; has got a headache, she says. I am going to put her down on my bed, to see if she can get a little sleep.”

Molly saw Lady Cuxhaven say something in a half-laughing manner to “Clare,” as she passed her; and the child could not keep from tormenting herself by fancying that the words spoken sounded wonderfully like “Over-eaten herself, I suspect.” However, she felt too poorly to worry herself long; the little white bed in the cool and pretty room had too many attractions for her aching head. The muslin curtains flapped softly, from time to time, in the scented air that came through the open windows. Clare covered her up with a light shawl, and darkened the room. As she was going away, Molly roused herself to say, “Please, ma’am, don’t let them go away without me! Please ask somebody to waken me if I go to sleep! I am to go back with Miss Brownings.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about it, dear; I’ll take care,” said Clare, turning round at the door, and kissing her hand to little anxious Molly. And then she went away, and thought no more about it. The carriages came round at half-past four, hurried a little by Lady Cumnor, who had suddenly become tired of the business of entertaining, and annoyed at the repetition of indiscriminating admiration.

“Why not have both carriages out, mamma, and get rid of them all at once?” said Lady Cuxhaven. “This going by instalments is the most tiresome thing that could be imagined.” So, at last, there had been a great hurry and an unmethodical way of packing off every one at once. Miss Browning had gone in the chariot (or “chawyot,” as Lady Cumnor called it;—it rhymed to her daughter, Lady Hawyot—or Harriet, as the name was spelt in the Peerage), and Miss Phœbe had been speeded, along with several other