“I cannot tell what poor Kirkpatrick would say, if he knew what I have done. He did so dislike the notion of second marriages, poor fellow!”

“Let us hope that he doesn’t know, then; or that, if he does, he is wiser—I mean, that he sees how second marriages may be most desirable and expedient in some cases.”

Altogether, this second tête-à-tête, done to command, was not so satisfactory as the first; and Mr. Gibson was quite alive to the necessity of proceeding on his round to see his patients, before very much time had elapsed.

“We shall shake down into uniformity before long, I’ve no doubt,” said he to himself, as he rode away. “It’s hardly to be expected that our thoughts should run in the same groove all at once. Nor should I like it,” he added. “It would be very flat and stagnant to have only an echo of one’s own opinions from one’s wife. Heigho! I must tell Molly about it: dear little woman, I wonder how she’ll take it? It’s done, in a great measure, for her good.” And then he lost himself in recapitulating Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s good qualities, and the advantages to be gained to his daughter from the step he had taken.

It was too late to go round by Hamley that afternoon. The Towers and the Towers round lay just in the opposite direction to Hamley. So it was the next morning, before Mr. Gibson arrived at the Hall, timing his visit as well as he could so as to have half-an-hour’s private talk with Molly, before Mrs. Hamley came down into the drawing-room. He thought that his daughter would require sympathy after receiving the intelligence he had to communicate; and he knew there was no one more fit to give it than Mrs. Hamley.

It was a brilliantly hot summer’s morning; men in their shirt-sleeves were in the fields getting in the early harvest of oats; as Mr. Gibson rode slowly along, he could see them over the tall hedge-rows, and even hear the soothing, measured sound of the fall of the long swathes, as they were mown. The labourers seemed too hot to talk; the dog, guarding their coats and cans, lay panting loudly on the other side of the elm, under which Mr. Gibson stopped for an instant to survey the scene, and gain a little delay before the interview that he wished was well over. In another minute, he had snapped at himself for his weakness, and put spurs to his horse. He came up to the Hall at a good sharp trot; it was earlier than the usual time of his visits, and no one was expecting him; all the stable-men were in the fields, but that signified little to Mr. Gibson; he walked his horse about, for five minutes or so, before taking him into the stable, and loosened his girths, examining him with perhaps unnecessary exactitude. He went into the house by a private door, and made his way into the drawing-room, half expecting, however, that Molly would be in the garden. She had been there; but it was too hot and dazzling now for her to remain out-of-doors, and she had come in by the open window of the drawing-room. Oppressed with the heat, she had fallen asleep in an easy-chair, her bonnet and open book upon her knee, one arm hanging listlessly down. She looked very soft, and young, and child-like; and a gush of love sprang into her father’s heart as he gazed at her.

“Molly!” said he gently, taking the little brown hand that was hanging down, and holding it in his own. “Molly!”

She opened her eyes, that for one moment had no recognition in them. Then the light came brilliantly into them; and she sprang up and threw her arms round his neck, exclaiming—

“Oh, papa, my dear, dear papa! What made you come while I was asleep? I lose the pleasure of watching for you.”

Mr. Gibson turned a little paler than he had been before. He still held her hand, and drew her to a seat by him on a sofa, without speaking. There was no need; she was chattering away.

“I was up so early! It is so charming to be out here in the fresh morning air. I think that made me sleepy. But isn’t it a gloriously hot day? I wonder if the Italian skies they talk about can be bluer than that—that little bit you see just between the oaks—there!”