“No, it wasn’t her mother; it was the French school-mistress, who didn’t think it desirable.”

“It comes to pretty much the same thing. And she’s to return and live with you after Easter?”

“I believe so. Is she a grave or a merry person?”

“Never very grave, as far as I have seen of her. ‘Sparkling’ would be the word for her, I think. Do you ever write to her? If you do, pray remember me to her, and tell her how we have been talking about her—you and I.”

“I never write to her,” said Molly, rather shortly.

Tea came in; and after that they all went to bed. Molly heard her father exclaim at the fire in his bed- room, and Mr. Preston’s reply—

“I pique myself on my keen relish for all creature-comforts, and also on my power of doing without them, if need be. My lord’s woods are ample, and I indulge myself with a fire in my bed-room for nine months in the year; yet I could travel in Iceland without wincing from the cold.”


  By PanEris using Melati.

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