It was well that Molly was such a favourite with the old servants; for she had frequently to restrain and to control. To be sure, she had her father’s authority to back her; and they were aware that, where her own comfort, ease, or pleasure was concerned, she never interfered, but submitted to their will. If the Squire had known of the want of attendance to which she submitted with the most perfect meekness, as far as she herself was the only sufferer, he would have gone into a towering rage. But Molly hardly thought of it, so anxious was she to do all she could for others, and to remember the various charges which her father gave her in his daily visits. Perhaps he did not spare her enough; she was willing and uncomplaining; but, one day, after Mrs. Osborne Hamley had “taken the turn,” as the nurses called it, when she was lying weak as a newborn baby, but with her faculties all restored, and her fever gone—when spring buds were blooming out, and spring birds sang merrily—Molly answered to her father’s sudden questioning, that she felt unaccountably weary; that her head ached heavily, and that she was aware of a sluggishness of thought which it required a painful effort to overcome.

“Don’t go on,” said Mr. Gibson, with a quick pang of anxiety, almost of remorse. “Lie down here—with your back to the light. I’ll come back and see you before I go.” And off he went, in search of the Squire. He had a good long walk, before he came upon Mr. Hamley in a field of spring wheat, where the women were weeding, his little grandson holding to his finger in the intervals of short walks of inquiry into the dirtiest places, which was all his sturdy little limbs could manage.

“Well, Gibson, and how goes the patient? Better? I wish we could get her out of doors, such a fine day as it is! It would make her strong as soon as anything. I used to beg my poor lad to come out more. Maybe, I worried him; but the air is the finest thing for strengthening that I know of. Though, perhaps, she’ll not thrive in English air as if she’d been born here; and she’ll not be quite right, till she gets back to her native place, wherever that is.”

“I don’t know. I begin to think we shall get her quite round here; and I don’t know that she could be in a better place. But it’s not about her. May I order the carriage for my Molly?” Mr. Gibson’s voice sounded as if he was choking a little, as he said these last words.

“To be sure,” said the Squire, setting the child down. He had been holding him in his arms the last few minutes; but now he wanted all his eyes to look into Mr. Gibson’s face. “I say,” said he, catching hold of Mr. Gibson’s arm, “what’s the matter, man? Don’t twitch up your face like that, but speak!”

“Nothing’s the matter,” said Mr. Gibson hastily. “Only I want her at home under my own eye”; and he turned away to go to the house. But the Squire left his field and his weeders, and kept at Mr. Gibson’s side. He wanted to speak, but his heart was so full he did not know what to say. “I say, Gibson,” he got out at last, “your Molly is liker a child of mine than a stranger; and I reckon we’ve all on us been coming too hard upon her. You don’t think there’s much amiss, do you?”

“How can I tell?” said Mr. Gibson, almost savagely. But any hastiness of temper was instinctively understood by the Squire; and he was not offended, though he did not speak again till they reached the house. Then he went to order the carriage, and stood by, sorrowful enough, while the horses were being put in. He felt as if he should not know what to do without Molly; he had never known her value, he thought, till now. But he kept silence on this view of the case; which was a praiseworthy effort on the part of one who usually let bystanders see and hear as much of his passing feelings as if he had had a window in his breast. He stood by, while Mr. Gibson helped the faintly-smiling, tearful Molly into the carriage. Then the Squire mounted on the step and kissed her hand; but when he tried to thank her and bless her, he broke down; and, as soon as he was once more safely on the ground, Mr. Gibson cried out to the coachman to drive on. And so Molly left Hamley Hall. From time to time her father rode up to the window, and made some little cheerful, and apparently careless, remark. When they came within two miles of Hollingford, he put spurs to his horse, and rode briskly past the carriage windows, kissing his hand to the occupant as he did so. He went on to prepare her home for Molly; when she arrived, Mrs. Gibson was ready to greet her. Mr. Gibson had given one or two of his bright, imperative orders, and