less handsome, middle-aged husband, might be too much of a contrast to be agreeable. Besides, he had really a strong passion for some one else; some one who would be absent; and that passion it was necessary for him to conceal. So that, altogether, he had resolved, even had “Gibson’s little girl” (as he called her) been less attractive than she was, to devote himself to her for the next sixteen hours.

They were taken by their host into a wainscoted parlour, where a wood fire crackled and burnt, and the crimson curtains shut out the waning day and the outer chill. Here the table was laid for dinner; snowy table-linen, bright silver, clear sparkling glass, wine and an autumnal dessert on the sideboard. Yet Mr. Preston kept apologising to Molly for the rudeness of his bachelor home, for the smallness of the room, the great dining-room being already appropriated by his housekeeper, in preparation for the morrow’s breakfast. And then he rang for a servant to show Molly to her room. She was taken into a most comfortable chamber; a wood fire on the hearth, candles lighted on the toilette-table, dark woollen curtains surrounding a snow-white bed, great vases of china standing here and there.

“This is my Lady Harriet’s room when her ladyship comes to the Manor-house with my lord the earl,” said the housemaid, striking out thousands of brilliant sparks by a well-directed blow at a smouldering log. “Shall I help you to dress, miss? I always helps her ladyship.”

Molly, quite aware of the fact that she had but her white muslin gown for the wedding besides that she had on, dismissed the good woman, and was thankful to be left to herself.

“Dinner” was it called? Why, it was nearly eight o’clock; and preparations for bed seemed a more natural employment than dressing at this hour of night. All the dressing she could manage was the placing of a red damask rose or two in the band of her grey stuff gown, from a great nosegay of choice autumnal flowers, standing on the toilette-table. She did try the effect of another crimson rose in her black hair, just above her ear; it was very pretty, but too coquettish, and so she put it back again. The dark oak- panels and wainscoting of the whole house seemed to glow in warm light; there were so many fires in different rooms, in the hall, and even one on the landing of the staircase. Mr. Preston must have heard her step, for he met her in the hall, and led her into a small drawing-room, with close folding-doors on one side, opening into the larger drawing-room, as he told her. This room into which she entered reminded her a little of Hamley—yellow satin upholstery of seventy or a hundred years ago, all delicately kept and scrupulously clean; great Indian cabinets, and china jars, emitting spicy odours; a large blazing fire, before which her father stood in his morning dress, grave and thoughtful, as he had been all day.

“This room is that which Lady Harriet uses when she comes here with her father for a day or two,” said Mr. Preston. And Molly tried to save her father by being ready to talk herself.

“Does she often come here?”

“Not often. But I fancy she likes being here, when she does. Perhaps she finds it an agreeable change after the more formal life she leads at the Towers.”

“I should think it was a very pleasant house to stay at,” said Molly, remembering the look of warm comfort that pervaded it. But, a little to her dismay, Mr. Preston seemed to take it as a compliment to himself.

“I was afraid a young lady like you might perceive all the incongruities of a bachelor’s home. I’m very much obliged to you, Miss Gibson. In general, I live pretty much in the room in which we shall dine; and I’ve a sort of agent’s office in which I keep books and papers, and receive callers on business.”

Then they went in to dinner. Molly thought everything that was served was delicious, and cooked to the point of perfection; but it did not seem to satisfy Mr. Preston, who apologised to his guests several times for the bad cooking of this dish, or the omission of a particular sauce to that; always referring to bachelor’s housekeeping, bachelor’s this, and bachelor’s that, till Molly grew quite impatient at the word. Her father’s depression, which was still continuing and rendering him very silent, made her uneasy; yet she wished to conceal it from Mr. Preston; and so she talked away, trying to obviate the sort of personal