“What on earth’s the matter with you?” Sara asked her laughingly.  “Hasn’t your father ever been away from home before?  You’re wandering about like an uneasy spirit!”

“I am an uneasy spirit,” responded Molly bluntly.  “I feel as though I’d a cold coming on, and I always like Dad to doctor me when I’m ill.”

“I can doctor a cold,” affirmed Sara briskly.  “Put your feet in hot water and mustard to-night and stay in bed to-morrow.”

Molly considered the proposed remedies in silence.

“Perhaps I will stay in bed to-morrow,” she said, at last, reluctantly.  “Should you mind?  We were going down to see the Lavender Lady, you remember.”

“I’ll go alone.  Anyway”—­smiling—­“if you’re safely tucked up in bed, I shall know you’re not getting into any mischief while Doctor Dick’s away!  But very likely the hot water and mustard will put you all right.”

“Perhaps it will,” agreed Molly hopefully.

The next morning, however, found her in bed, snuffling and complaining of headache, and pathetically resigned to the idea of spending the day between the sheets.  Obviously she was in no fit state to inflict her company on other people, so, in the afternoon, after settling her comfortably with a new novel and a box of cigarettes at her bedside, Sara took her solitary way to Rose Cottage.

There she found Garth Trent, sitting beside Herrick’s couch and deep in an enthusiastic discussion of amateur photography.  But, immediately on her entrance, the eager, interested expression died out of his face, and very shortly after tea he made his farewells, nor could any soft blandishments on the part of the Lavender Lady prevail upon him to remain longer.

Sara felt hurt and resentful.  Since the day of the expedition to Devil’s Hood Island, Trent had punctiliously avoided being in her company whenever circumstances would permit him to do so, and she was perfectly aware that it was her presence at Rose Cottage which was responsible for his early departure this afternoon.

A gleam of anger flickered in the black depths of her eyes as he shook hands.

“I’m sorry I’ve driven you away,” she flashed at him beneath her breath, with a bitterness akin to his own.  He made no answer, merely releasing her hand rather quickly, as though something in her words had flicked him on the raw.

“What a pity Mr. Trent had to leave so soon,” remarked Miss Lavinia, with innocent regret, when he had gone.  “I’m afraid we shall never persuade him to be really sociable, poor dear man!  He seems a little moody to-day, don’t you think?”—­hesitating delicately.

“He’s a bore!” burst out Sara succinctly.

Miles shook his head.

“No, I don’t think that,” he said.  “But he’s a very sick man.  In my opinion, Trent’s had his soul badly mauled at some time or other.”

“He needn’t advertise the fact, then,” retorted Sara, unappeased.  “We all get our share of ill-luck.  Garth behaves as if he had the monopoly.”