‘I daresay there was,’ said Roger.  ’My mother is very delicate, and obliged to humour her health, which has made her keep aloof from society.’

‘Then I may go?’ said Molly, sparkling with the idea of seeing her dear Mrs. Hamley again, yet afraid of appearing too desirous of leaving her kind old friends.

’To be sure, my dear.  Write a pretty note, and tell Mrs. Hamley how much obliged to her we are for thinking of us.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t wait for a note,’ said Roger.  ’I must take a message instead, for I have to meet my father at one o’clock, and it’s close upon it now.’

When he was gone, Molly felt so light-hearted at the thoughts of Thursday that she could hardly attend to what the Miss Brownings were saying.  One was talking about the pretty muslin gown which Molly had sent to the wash only that morning, and contriving how it could be had back again in time for Molly to wear; and the other, Miss Phoebe, totally inattentive to her sister’s speaking for a wonder, was piping out a separate strain of her own, and singing Roger Hamley’s praises.

’Such a fine-looking young man, and so courteous and affable.  Like the young men of our youth now, is he not, sister?  And yet they all say Mr. Osborne is the handsomest.  What do you think, child?’

‘I’ve never seen Mr. Osborne,’ said Molly, blushing, and hating herself for doing so.  Why was it?  She had never seen him as she said.  It was only that her fancy had dwelt on him so much.

He was gone; all the gentlemen were gone before the carriage, which came to fetch Molly on Thursday, reached Hamley Hall.  But Molly was almost glad, she was so much afraid of being disappointed.  Besides, she had her dear Mrs. Hamley the more to herself; the quiet sit in the morning-room, talking poetry and romance; the mid-day saunter into the garden, brilliant with autumnal flowers and glittering dew-drops on the gossamer webs that stretched from scarlet to blue, and thence to purple and yellow petals.  As they were sitting at lunch, a strange man’s voice and step were heard in the hall; the door was opened, and a young man came in, who could be no other than Osborne.  He was beautiful and languid-looking, almost as frail in appearance as his mother, whom he strongly resembled.  This seeming delicacy made him appear older than he was.  He was dressed to perfection, and yet with easy carelessness.  He came up to his mother, and stood by her, holding her hand, while his eyes sought Molly, not boldly or impertinently, but as if appraising her critically.

’Yes!  I’m back again.  Bullocks, I find, are not in my line.  I only disappointed my father in not being able to appreciate their merits, and, I’m afraid, I didn’t care to learn.  And the smell was insufferable on such a hot day.’

’My dear boy, don’t make apologies to me; keep them for your father.  I’m only too glad to have you back.  Miss Gibson, this tall fellow is my son Osborne, as I daresay you have guessed.  Osborne—­Miss Gibson.  Now, what will you have?’