“No. A rose, I dare say. The carriage is at the door, and, Molly my dear, I don’t want to hurry you, but”—

“I know. Here, Roger—here is a rose! I will find papa as soon as ever I get home. How is the little boy?”

“I’m afraid it’s the beginning of some kind of a fever.”

And the Squire took her to the carriage, talking all the way of the little boy; Roger following, and hardly heeding what he was doing, in the answer he kept asking himself: “Too late—or not? Can she ever forget that my first foolish love was given to one so different?”

While she, as the carriage rolled away, kept saying to herself—“We are friends again. I don’t believe he will remember what the dear Squire took it into his head to suggest for many days. It is so pleasant to be on the old terms again! and what lovely flowers!”