Molly was bracing herself up in her way too. “I will be like Harriet. I will think of others. I won’t think of myself,” she kept repeating all the way to the Towers. But there was no selfishness in wishing that the day was come to an end, and that she did very heartily. Mrs. Hamley sent her thither in the carriage, which was to wait and bring her back at night. Mrs. Hamley wanted Molly to make a favourable impression, and she sent for her to come and show herself before she set out.

“Don’t put on your silk gown—your white muslin will look the nicest, my dear.”

“Not my silk! it is quite new! I had it to come here.”

“Still, I think your white muslin suits you the best.” “Anything but that horrid plaid silk” was the thought in Mrs. Hamley’s mind; and, thanks to her, Molly set off for the Towers, looking a little quaint, it is true, but thoroughly lady-like, if she was old-fashioned. Her father was to meet her there; but he had been detained, and she had to face Mrs. Kirkpatrick by herself, the recollection of her last day of misery at the Towers fresh in her mind, as if it had been yesterday. Mrs. Kirkpatrick was as caressing as could be. She held Molly’s hand in hers, as they sate together in the library, after the first salutations were over. She kept stroking it from time to time, and purring out inarticulate sounds of loving satisfaction, as she gazed in the blushing face.

“What eyes! so like your dear father’s! How we shall love each other—shan’t we, darling? For his sake!”

“I’ll try,” said Molly bravely; and then she could not finish her sentence.

“And you’ve just got the same beautiful black curling hair!” said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, softly lifting one of Molly’s curls from off her white temple.

“Papa’s hair is growing grey,” said Molly.

“Is it? I never see it. I never shall see it. He will always be to me the handsomest of men.”

Mr. Gibson was really a very handsome man, and Molly was pleased with the compliment; but she could not help saying—

“Still, he will grow old, and his hair will grow grey. I think he will be just as handsome, but it won’t be as a young man.”

“Ah! that’s just it, love. He’ll always be handsome; some people always are. And he is so fond of you, dear.” Molly’s colour flashed into her face. She did not want an assurance of her own father’s love from this strange woman. She could not help being angry; all she could do was to keep silent. “You don’t know how he speaks of you; ‘his little treasure,’ as he calls you. I’m almost jealous sometimes.”

Molly took her hand away, and her heart began to harden; these speeches were so discordant to her. But she set her teeth together, and “tried to be good.”

“We must make him so happy. I’m afraid he has had a great deal to annoy him at home; but we will do away with all that now. You must tell me,” seeing the cloud in Molly’s eyes, “what he likes and dislikes, for of course you will know.”

Molly’s face cleared a little; of course she did know. She had not watched and loved him so long without believing that she understood him better than any one else: though, how he had come to like Mrs. Kirkpatrick enough to wish to marry her, was an unsolved problem that she unconsciously put aside as inexplicable. Mrs. Kirkpatrick went on—“All men have their fancies and antipathies, even the wisest. I have known some gentlemen annoyed beyond measure by the merest trifles; leaving a door open, or spilling tea in their saucers, or a shawl crookedly put on. Why,” continued she, lowering her voice, “I know of a house to which Lord Hollingford will never be asked again, because he didn’t wipe his shoes on both the mats in the hall! Now you must tell me what your dear father dislikes most in these fanciful ways, and I shall