So she could leave him, and go in. But, just as she was close to the garden door, Roger came out. It really was for once a case of virtue its own reward, for it was far pleasanter to her to have him in a tête-à- tête, however short, than in the restraint of Mrs. Gibson’s and Cynthia’s presence.

“I only just found out where you were, Molly. Mrs. Gibson said you had gone out, but she didn’t know where; and it was the greatest chance that I turned round and saw you.”

“I saw you some time ago, but I couldn’t leave Williams. I think he was unusually slow to-day; and he seemed as if he couldn’t understand my plans for the new flower-beds.”

“Is that the paper you’ve got in your hand? Let me look at it, will you? Ah, I see! you’ve borrowed some of your ideas from our garden at home, haven’t you? This bed of scarlet geraniums, with the border of young oaks, pegged down? That was a fancy of my dear mother’s.”

They were both silent for a minute or two. Then Molly said—

“How is the Squire? I’ve never seen him since.”

“No; he told me how much he wanted to see you, but he couldn’t make up his mind to come and call. I suppose it would never do now for you to come and stay at the Hall, would it? It would give my father so much pleasure—he looks upon you as a daughter; and I’m sure both Osborne and I shall always consider you are like a sister to us, after all my mother’s love for you, and your tender care of her at the last. But I suppose it wouldn’t do?”

“No! certainly not,” said Molly hastily.

“I fancy, if you could come, it would put us a little to rights. You know, as I think I once told you, Osborne has behaved differently to what I should have done, though not wrongly—only what I call an error of judgment. But my father, I’m sure, has taken up some notion of—never mind; only the end of it is that he holds Osborne still in tacit disgrace, and is miserable himself all the time. Osborne, too, is sore and unhappy, and estranged from my father. It is just what my mother would have put right very soon, and perhaps you could have done it— unconsciously, I mean—for this wretched mystery that Osborne preserves about his affairs is at the root of it all. But there’s no use talking about it; I don’t know why I began.” Then, with a wrench, changing the subject, while Molly still thought of what he had been telling her, he broke out—“I can’t tell you how much I like Miss Kirkpatrick, Molly. It must be a great pleasure to you, having such a companion!”

“Yes,” said Molly, half-smiling. “I’m very fond of her, and I think I like her better every day I know her. But how quickly you have found out her virtues!”

“I didn’t say ‘virtues,’ did I?” asked he, reddening, but putting the question in all good faith. “Yet I don’t think one could be deceived in that face. And Mrs. Gibson appears to be a very friendly person—she has asked Osborne and me to dine here on Friday.”

“Bitter-beer” came into Molly’s mind; but what she said was, “And are you coming?”

“Certainly, I am, unless my father wants me; and I’ve given Mrs. Gibson a conditional promise for Osborne, too. So I shall see you all very soon again. But I must go now. I have to keep an appointment, seven miles from here, in half-an-hour’s time. Good luck to your flower-garden, Molly!”