‘I’m right down glad of it,’ said Molly.  ’Nearly everything in it was what mamma had when she lived with my great-uncle.  I wouldn’t have had it changed for the world; I am so fond of it.’

’Well, there’s no danger of it, now the money is run out.  By the way, Molly, who’s to buy you a bridesmaid’s dress?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Molly;’I suppose I am to be a bridesmaid; but no one has spoken to me about my dress.’

‘Then I shall ask your papa.’

’Please, don’t.  He must have to spend a great deal of money just now.  Besides, I would rather not be at the wedding, if they’ll let me stay away.’

’Nonsense, child.  Why, all the town would be talking of it.  You must go, and you must be well dressed, for your father’s sake.’

But Mr. Gibson had thought of Molly’s dress, although he had said nothing about it to her.  He had commissioned his future wife to get her what was requisite; and presently a very smart dressmaker came over from the county-town to try on a dress, which was both so simple and so elegant as at once to charm Molly.  When it came home all ready to put on, Molly had a private dressing-up for the Miss Brownings’ benefit; and she was almost startled when she looked into the glass, and saw the improvement in her appearance.  ‘I wonder if I’m pretty,’ thought she.  ’I almost think I am—­in this kind of dress I mean, of course.  Betty would say, “Fine feathers make fine birds."’

When she went downstairs in her bridal attire, and with shy blushes presented herself for inspection, she was greeted with a burst of admiration.

‘Well, upon my word!  I shouldn’t have known you.’ (’Fine feathers,’ thought Molly, and checked her rising vanity.)

‘You are really beautiful—­isn’t she, sister?’ said Miss Phoebe.  ’Why, my dear, if you were always dressed, you would be prettier than your dear mamma, whom we always reckoned so very personable.’

’You’re not a bit like her.  You favour your father, and white always sets off a brown complexion.’

‘But isn’t she beautiful?’ persevered Miss Phoebe.

’Well! and if she is, Providence made her, and not she herself.  Besides, the dressmaker must go shares.  What a fine India muslin it is! it’ll have cost a pretty penny!’

Mr. Gibson and Molly drove over to Ashcombe, the night before the wedding, in the one yellow post-chaise that Hollingford possessed.  They were to be Mr. Preston’s, or, rather, my lord’s, guests at the Manor-house.  The Manor-house came up to its name, and delighted Molly at first sight.  It was built of stone, had many gables and mullioned windows, and was covered over with Virginian creeper and late-blowing roses.  Molly did not know Mr. Preston, who stood in the doorway to greet her father.  She took standing with him as a young lady at once, and it was the first time she had met with the kind of behaviour—­half complimentary, half flirting—­which