To her surprise Molly received the remark almost passionately.

“How could that give me back my mother’s ruined life?” she demanded.

“I know, dear, but the fact remains that he was your father—–­”

“Oh, I don’t care in the least about the fact,” retorted Molly, with her pretty rustic attempt at a shrug, which implied, in this case, that the government of nature, like that of society, rested solely on the consent of the governed.  What was clear to Kesiah was that this rebellion against the injustice of the universe, as well as against the expiation of Mr. Jonathan, was the outcome of a strong, though undisciplined, moral passion within her.  In her way, Molly was as stern a moralist as Sarah Revercomb, but she derived her convictions from no academic system of ethics.  Kesiah had heard of her as a coquette; now she realized that beneath the coqueteries there was a will of iron.

“You must come to us, some day, dear, and let us do what we can to make you happy,” she said.  “It would be a pity for all that money to go to the conversion of the Chinese, who are doubtless quite happy as they are.”

“I wonder why he chose the Chinese?” replied the girl.  “They seem so far away, and there’s poor little Mrs. Meadows at Piping Tree who is starving for bread.”

“He was always like that—­and so is my sister Angela—­the thing that wasn’t in sight was the thing he agonized over.”  She did not confess that she had detected a similar weakness in herself, and that, seen the world over, it is the indubitable mark of the sentimentalist.

Analysis of Mr. Jonathan’s character, however, failed to interest his daughter.  She smiled sweetly, but indifferently, and made a movement to pass on into the meadow.  Then, looking into Kesiah’s face, she said in a warmer voice:  “If ever you want my help about your store room, Miss Kesiah, just send for me.  When you’re ready to change the brine on your pickles, I’ll come down and do it.”

“Thank you, Molly,” answered the other; “you’re a nice light hand for such things.”

In some almost imperceptible manner she felt that the girl had rebuffed her.  The conversation had been pleasant enough, yet Kesiah had meant to show in it that she considered Molly’s position changed since the evening before; and it was this very suggestion that the girl had tossed lightly aside—­tossed without rudeness or malice, but with a firmness, a finality, which appeared to settle the question forever.  The acknowledged daughter of Mr. Jonathan Gay was determined that she should continue to be known merely as the granddaughter of his overseer.  Kesiah’s overtures, had been—­well, not exactly repulsed, but certainly ignored; her advice had melted to thin air as soon as it was spoken.  As Molly flitted from her over the young weeds in the meadow, the older woman stood looking after her with a heaviness, like the weight of unshed tears, in her eyes.  Not