guests, away in a great roomy family conveyance, of the kind which we should now call an “omnibus.” Each thought that Molly Gibson was with the other; and the truth was, that she lay fast asleep on Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s bed—Mrs. Kirkpatrick, née Clare.

The housemaids came in to arrange the room. Their talking aroused Molly, who sat up on the bed, and tried to push back the hair from her hot forehead, and to remember where she was. She dropped down on her feet by the side of the bed, to the astonishment of the women, and said— “Please, how soon are we going away?”

“Bless us and save us! who’d ha’ thought of any one being in the bed? Are you one of the Hollingford ladies, my dear? They are all gone this hour or more!”

“Oh, dear, what shall I do? That lady they call Clare promised to waken me in time. Papa will so wonder where I am, and I don’t know what Betty will say.”

The child began to cry, and the housemaids looked at each other in some dismay and much sympathy. Just then, they heard Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s step along the passages, approaching. She was singing some little Italian air in a low musical voice, coming to her bedroom to dress for dinner. One housemaid said to the other, with a knowing look, “Best leave it to her;” and they passed on to their work in the other rooms.

Mrs. Kirkpatrick opened the door, and stood aghast at the sight of Molly.

“Why, I quite forgot you!” she said at length. “Nay, don’t cry; you’ll make yourself not fit to be seen. Of course, I must take the consequences of your over-sleeping yourself; and, if I can’t manage to get you back to Hollingford tonight, you shall sleep with me, and we’ll do our best to send you home to-morrow morning.”

“But papa!” sobbed out Molly. “He always wants me to make tea for him; and I have no night-things.”

“Well, don’t go and make a piece of work about what can’t be helped now! I’ll lend you night-things, and your papa must do without your making tea for him to-night. And, another time, don’t over-sleep yourself in a strange house; you may not always find yourself among such hospitable people as they are here. Why now, if you don’t cry and make a figure of yourself, I’ll ask if you may come in to dessert with Master Smythe and the little ladies. You shall go into the nursery, and have some tea with them; and then you must come back here and brush your hair and make yourself tidy. I think it is a very fine thing for you to be stopping in such a grand house as this; many a little girl would like nothing better.”

During this speech she was arranging her toilette for dinner—taking off her black morning-gown; putting on her dressing-gown; shaking her long soft auburn hair over her shoulders, and glancing about the room in search of various articles of her dress—a running flow of easy talk babbling out all the time.

“I have a little girl of my own, dear! I don’t know what she would not give to be staying here at Lord Cumnor’s with me; but, instead of that, she has to spend her holidays at school; and yet you are looking as miserable as can be at the thought of stopping for just one night. I really have been as busy as can be with those tiresome—those good ladies, I mean, from Hollingford—and one can’t think of everything at a time.”

Molly—only child as she was—had stopped her tears at the mention of that little girl of Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s; and now she ventured to say—

“Are you married, ma’am; I thought she called you Clare?”