“To be sure, the old one won’t fit that great Irish mare. But I’m not particular, papa. I think I could manage somehow.”

“Thank you. But I’m not quite going to return into barbarism. It may be a depraved taste, but I should like to see my daughter properly mounted.”

“Think of riding together down the lanes—why, the dog-roses must be all out in flower, and the honeysuckles, and the hay—how I should like to see Merriman’s farm again! Papa, do let me have one ride with you! Please do! I’m sure we can manage it somehow.”

And “somehow” it was managed. “Somehow” all Molly’s wishes came to pass; there was only one little drawback to this week of holiday and happy intercourse with her father. Everybody would ask them out to tea. They were quite like bride and bridegroom; for the fact was, that the late dinners which Mrs. Gibson had introduced into her own house were a great inconvenience in the calculations of the small tea-drinkings at Hollingford. How ask people to tea at six, who dined at that hour? How, when they refused cake and sandwiches at half-past eight, how induce other people who were really hungry to commit a vulgarity before those calm and scornful eyes? So there had been a great lull of invitations for the Gibsons to Hollingford tea-parties. Mrs. Gibson, whose object was to squeeze herself into “county society,” had taken this being left out of the smaller festivities with great equanimity; but Molly missed the kind homeliness of the parties to which she had gone from time to time as long as she could remember; and though, as each three-cornered note was brought in, she grumbled a little over the loss of another charming evening with her father, she really was glad to go again in the old way among old friends. Miss Browning and Miss Phœbe were especially compassionate towards her in her loneliness. If they had had their will, she would have dined there every day; and she had to call upon them very frequently, in order to prevent their being hurt at her declining the dinners. Mrs. Gibson wrote twice during her week’s absence to her husband. That piece of news was quite satisfactory to the Miss Brownings, who had of late held themselves a great deal aloof from a house where they chose to suppose that their presence was not wanted. In their winter evenings they had often talked over Mr. Gibson’s household, and, having little besides conjecture to go upon, they found the subject interminable, as they could vary the possibilities every day. One of their wonders was, how Mr. and Mrs. Gibson really got on together; another was, whether Mrs. Gibson was extravagant or not. Now two letters during the week of her absence showed what was in those days considered a very proper amount of conjugal affection. Yet not too much—at elevenpence-halfpenny postage. A third letter would have been extravagant. Sister looked to sister with an approving nod, as Molly named the second letter, which arrived in Hollingford the very day before Mrs. Gibson was to return. They had settled between themselves that two letters would show the right amount of good feeling and proper understanding in the Gibson family: more would have been excessive; only one would have been a mere matter of duty. There had been rather a question between Miss Browning and Miss Phœbe as to which person the second letter (supposing it came) was to be addressed to. It would be very conjugal to write twice to Mr. Gibson; and yet it would be very pretty, if Molly came in for her share.

“You’ve had another letter, you say, my dear?” asked Miss Browning. “I daresay Mrs. Gibson has written to you this time?”

“It is a large sheet, and Cynthia has written on one half to me, and all the rest is to papa.”

“A very nice arrangement, I’m sure. And what does Cynthia say? Is she enjoying herself?”

“Oh, yes, I think so. They’ve had a dinner-party; and one night, when mamma was at Lady Cumnor’s, Cynthia went to the play with her cousins.”

“Upon my word! and all in one week? I do call that dissipation. Why, Thursday would be taken up with the journey, and Friday with resting, and Sunday is Sunday all the world over; and they must have written on Tuesday. Well! I hope Cynthia won’t find Hollingford dull, that’s all, when she comes back.”