’But you know, my dear, I told you of the reason why it does not do to have Molly at home just at present,’ said Mr. Gibson, eagerly.  For the more he knew of his future wife, the more he felt it necessary to remember that, with all her foibles, she would be able to stand between Molly and any such adventures as that which had occurred lately with Mr. Coxe; so that one of the good reasons for the step he had taken was always present to him, while it had slipped off the smooth surface of Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s mirror-like mind without leaving any impression.  She now recalled it, on seeing Mr. Gibson’s anxious face.

But what were Molly’s feelings at these last words of her father’s?  She had been sent from home for some reason, kept a secret from her, but told to this strange woman.  Was there to be perfect confidence between these two, and she to be for ever shut out?  Was she, and what concerned her—­though how, she did not know—­to be discussed between them for the future, and she to be kept in the dark?  A bitter pang of jealousy made her heart-sick.  She might as well go to Ashcombe, or anywhere else, now.  Thinking more of others’ happiness than of her own was very fine; but did it not mean giving up her very individuality, quenching all the warm love, the keen desires, that made her herself?  Yet in this deadness lay her only comfort; or so it seemed.  Wandering in such mazes, she hardly knew how the conversation went on; a third was indeed ‘trumpery,’ where there was entire confidence between the two who were company, from which the other was shut out.  She was positively unhappy, and her father did not appear to see it; he was absorbed with his new plans and his new wife that was to be.  But he did notice it; and was keenly sorry for his little girl; only he thought that there was a greater chance for the future harmony of the household, if he did not lead Molly to define her present feelings by putting them into words.  It was his general plan to repress emotion by not showing the sympathy he felt.  Yet, when he had to leave, he took Molly’s hand in his, and held it there, in such a different manner to that in which Mrs. Kirkpatrick had done; and his voice softened to his child as he bade her good-by, and added the words (most unusual to him), ’God bless you, child!’

Molly had held up all the day bravely; she had not shown anger, or repugnance, or annoyance, or regret; but when once more by herself in the Hamley carriage, she burst into a passion of tears, and cried her fill till she reached the village of Hamley.  Then she tried in vain to smooth her face into smiles, and do away with the other signs of her grief.  She only hoped she could run upstairs to her own room without notice, and bathe her eyes in cold water before she was seen.  But at the hall-door she was caught by the squire and Roger coming in from an after-dinner stroll in the garden, and hospitably anxious to help her to alight.  Roger saw the state of things in an instant, and saying,—­