Only Miss Phœbe would seek out Molly with even more than her former tenderness; and this tried Molly’s calmness more than all the slights put together. The soft hand, pressing hers under the table—the continual appeals to her, so as to bring her back into the conversation—touched Molly almost to shedding tears. Sometimes, the poor girl wondered to herself whether this change in the behaviour of her acquaintances was not a mere fancy of hers; whether, if she had never had that conversation with her father, in which she had borne herself so bravely at the time, she should have discovered the difference in their treatment of her. She never told her father how she felt these perpetual small slights: she had chosen to bear the burden of her own free will; nay, more, she had insisted on being allowed to do so; and it was not for her to grieve him now, by showing that she shrank from the consequences of her own act. So she never even made an excuse for not going into the small gaieties, or mingling with the society of Hollingford. Only, she suddenly let go the stretch of restraint she was living in, when one evening her father told her that he was really anxious about Mrs. Gibson’s cough, and should like Molly to give up a party at Mrs. Goodenough’s, to which they were all three invited, but to which Molly alone was going. Molly’s heart leaped up at the thought of stopping at home, even though the next moment she had to blame herself for rejoicing at a reprieve that was purchased by another’s suffering. However, the remedies prescribed by her husband did Mrs. Gibson good; and she was particularly grateful and caressing to Molly.

“Really, dear!” said she, stroking Molly’s head, “I think your hair is getting softer, and losing that disagreeable crisp, curly feeling.”

Then Molly knew that her stepmother was in high good-humour; the smoothness or curliness of her hair was a sure test of the favour in which Mrs. Gibson held her at the moment.

“I am so sorry to be the cause of detaining you from this little party; but dear papa is so over-anxious about me. I have always been a kind of pet with gentlemen, and poor Mr. Kirkpatrick never knew how to make enough of me. But I think Mr. Gibson is even more foolishly fond; his last words were, ‘Take care of yourself, Hyacinth;’ and then he came back again, to say, ‘If you don’t attend to my directions, I won’t answer for the consequences.’ I shook my fore-finger at him, and said, ‘Don’t be so anxious, you silly man.’ ”

“I hope we have done everything he told us to do,” said Molly.

“Oh yes! I feel so much better. Do you know, late as it is, I think you might go to Mrs. Goodenough’s yet! Maria could take you, and I should like to see you dressed; when one has been wearing dull warm gowns for a week or two, one gets quite a craving for bright colours and evening dress. So go and get ready, dear, and then perhaps you’ll bring me back some news; for really, shut up as I have been with only papa and you for the last fortnight, I’ve got quite moped and dismal, and I can’t bear to keep young people from the gaieties suitable to their age.”

“Oh, pray, mamma! I had so much rather not go!”

“Very well! very well! Only I think it is rather selfish of you, when you see I am so willing to make the sacrifice for your sake.”

“But you say it is a sacrifice to you, and I don’t want to go.”

“Very well; did I not say you might stop at home? only pray don’t chop logic; nothing is so fatiguing to a sick person.”

Then they were silent for some time. Mrs. Gibson broke the silence by saying, in a languid voice—

“Can’t you think of anything amusing to say, Molly?”