Molly chose a walk that had been a favourite with her ever since she was a child.  Something or other had happened just before she left home that made her begin wondering how far it was right for the sake of domestic peace to pass over without comment the little deviations from right that people perceive in those whom they live with.  Or, whether, as they are placed in families for distinct purposes, not by chance merely, there are not duties involved in this aspect of their lot in life,—­whether by continually passing over failings, their own standard is not lowered,—­the practical application of these thoughts being a dismal sort of perplexity on Molly’s part as to whether her father was quite aware of her stepmother’s perpetual lapses from truth; and whether his blindness was wilful or not.  Then she felt bitterly enough that although she was sure as could be that there was no real estrangement between her and her father, yet that there were perpetual obstacles thrown in the way of their intercourse; and she thought with a sigh that if he would but come in with authority, he might cut his way clear to the old intimacy with his daughter, and that they might have all the former walks and talks, and quips and cranks, and glimpses of real confidence once again; things that her stepmother did not value, yet which she, like the dog in the manger, prevented Molly enjoying.  But after all Molly was a girl, not so far removed from childhood; and in the middle of her grave regrets and perplexities her eye was caught by the sight of some fine ripe blackberries flourishing away high up on the hedge-bank among scarlet hips and green and russet leaves.  She did not care much for blackberries herself; but she had heard Cynthia say that she liked them; and besides there was the charm of scrambling and gathering them, so she forgot all about her troubles, and went climbing up the banks, and clutching at her almost inaccessible prizes, and slipping down again triumphant, to carry them back to the large leaf which was to serve her as a basket.  One or two of them she tasted, but they were as vapid to her palate as ever.  The skirt of her pretty print gown was torn out of the gathers, and even with the fruit she had eaten ’her pretty lips with blackberries were all besmeared and dyed,’ when, having gathered as many and more than she could possibly carry, she set off home, hoping to escape into her room and mend her gown before it had offended Mrs. Gibson’s neat eye.  The front door was easily opened from the outside, and Molly was out of the clear light of the open air and in the shadow of the hall; she saw a face peep out of the dining-room before she quite recognized who it was; and then Mrs Gibson came softly out, sufficiently at least to beckon her into the room.  When Molly had entered Mrs. Gibson closed the door.  Poor Molly expected a reprimand for her torn gown and untidy appearance, but was soon relieved by the expression of Mrs. Gibson’s face—­mysterious and radiant.