was to serve her as dressing-table as well.  All the furniture in the room was as old-fashioned and as well-preserved as it could be.  The chintz curtains were Indian calico of the last century—­the colours almost washed out, but the stuff itself exquisitely clean.  There was a little strip of bedside carpeting, but the wooden flooring, thus liberally displayed, was of finely-grained oak, so firmly joined, plank to plank, that no grain of dust could make its way into the interstices.  There were none of the luxuries of modern days; no writing-table, or sofa, or pier-glass.  In one corner of the walls was a bracket, holding an Indian jar filled with pot-pourri; and that and the climbing honeysuckle outside the open window scented the room more exquisitely than any toilette perfumes.  Molly laid out her white gown (of last year’s date and size) upon the bed, ready for the (to her new) operation of dressing for dinner, and having arranged her hair and dress, and taken out her company worsted-work,’ she opened the door softly, and saw Mrs. Hamley lying on the sofa.

’Shall we stay up here, m dear?  I think it is pleasanter than down below; and then I shall not have to come upstairs again at dressing-time.’

‘I shall like it very much,’ replied Molly.

‘Ah! you’ve got your sewing, like a good girl,’ said Mrs. Hamley.  ’Now, I don’t sew much.  I live alone a great deal.  You see, both my boys are at Cambridge, and the squire is out of doors all day long—­so I have almost forgotten how to sew.  I read a great deal.  Do you like reading?’

‘It depends upon the kind of book,’ said Molly.  ’I’m afraid I don’t like “steady reading,” as papa calls it.’

‘But you like poetry!’ said Mrs. Hamley, almost interrupting Molly.  ’I was sure you did, from your face.  Have you read this last poem of Mrs. Hemans?  Shall I read it aloud to you?’

So she began.  Molly was not so much absorbed in listening but that she could glance round the room.  The character of the furniture was much the same as in her own.  Old-fashioned, of handsome material, and faultlessly clean; the age and the foreign appearance of it gave an aspect of comfort and picturesqueness to the whole apartment.  On the walls there hung some crayon sketches—­portraits.  She thought she could make out that one of them was a likeness of Mrs. Hamley, in her beautiful youth.  And then she became interested in the poem, and dropped her work, and listened in a manner that was after Mrs Hamley’s own heart.  When the reading of the poem was ended, Mrs Hamley replied to some of Molly’s words of admiration, by saying,—­

’Ah!  I think I must read you some of Osborne’s poetry some day; under seal of secrecy, remember; but I really fancy they are almost as good as Mrs. Hemans’.’

To be ‘nearly as good as Mrs. Hemans’ was saying as much to the young ladies of that day, as saying that poetry is nearly as good as Tennyson’s would be in this.  Molly looked up with eager interest.