“But you do not understand.  I had to come, although for the time father has forbidden us to speak with you—­”

Hetty stepped to the door and held it open.  “Then one of his daughters at any rate shall be dutiful,” she said.

Molly flung her an imploring look and walked out, sobbing.

“Is Hetty not coming down to supper?” Emilia asked in the kitchen that evening.  Mrs. Wesley with her daughters and Johnny Whitelamb supped there as a rule when not entertaining visitors.  The Rector took his meals alone, in the parlour.

“Your father has locked her in.  Until to-morrow he forbids her to have anything but bread and water,” answered Mrs. Wesley.

“And she is twenty-seven years old,” added Molly.

All looked at her; even Johnny Whitelamb looked, with a face as long as a fiddle.  The comment was quiet, but the note of scorn in it could not be mistaken.  Molly in revolt!  Molly, of all persons!  Molly sat trembling.  She knew that among them all Johnny was her one ally—­and a hopelessly distressed and ineffective one.  He had turned his head quickly and leaned forward, blinking and spreading his hands—­though the season was high summer—­to the cold embers of the kitchen fire; his heart torn between adoration of Hetty and the old dog-like worship of his master.

“Molly dear, she has deceived him and us all,” was Mrs. Wesley’s reproof, unexpectedly gentle.

“For my part,” put in Nancy comfortably, “I don’t suppose she would care to come down.  And ’tis cosy to be back in the kitchen again, after ten days of the parlour and Mrs. Sam.  Emmy agrees, I know.”

But Emmy with fine composure put aside this allusion to her pet foe.  “Molly and Johnny should make a match of it,” she sneered.  “They might set up house on their belief in Hetty, and even take her to lodge with them.”

John Whitelamb sprang up as if stung; stood for a moment, still with his face averted upon the fire; then, while all stared at him, let drop the arm he had half-lifted towards the mantel-shelf and relapsed into his chair.  He had not uttered a sound.

Mrs. Wesley had a reproof upon her tongue, and this time a sharp one.  She was prevented, however, by Molly, who rose to her feet, tottered to the door as if wounded, and escaped from the kitchen.

Molly mounted the stairs with bowed head, dragging herself at each step by the handrail.  Reaching the garrets, she paused by Hetty’s door to listen.  No light pierced the chinks; within was silence.  She crept away to her room, undressed, and lay down, sobbing quietly.

Her sobs ceased, but she could not sleep.  A full moon strained its rays through the tattered curtain, and as it climbed, she watched the panel of light on the wall opposite steal down past a text above the washstand, past the washstand itself, to the bare flooring.  “God is love” said the text, and Molly had paid a pedlar twopence for it, years before, at Epworth fair—­quite unaware that she was purchasing the Wesley family motto.  She heard her mother and sisters below bid one another good night and mount to their rooms.  An hour later her father went his round, locking up.  Then came silence.