’Molly—­come here! who is that man wrapped up in a cloak,—­there,—­near the Park wall, under the beech-tree—­he has been there this half-hour and more, never stirring, and looking at this house all the time!  I think it’s very suspicious.’

Molly looked, and in an instant recognized Roger under all his wraps.  Her first instinct was to draw back.  The next to come forwards, and say,—­’Why, mamma, it’s Roger Hamley!  Look now—­he’s kissing his hand; he’s wishing us good-by in the only way he can!’ And she responded to his sign; but she was not sure if he perceived her modest quiet movement, for Mrs. Gibson became immediately so demonstrative that Molly fancied that her eager foolish pantomimic motions must absorb all his attention.

‘I call this so attentive of him,’ said Mrs. Gibson, in the midst of a volley of kisses of her hand.  ’Really it is quite romantic.  It reminds me of former days—­but he will be too late!  I must send him away; it is half-past twelve!’ And she took out her watch and held it up, tapping it with her forefinger, and occupying the very centre of the window.  Molly could only peep here and there, dodging now up, now down, now on this side, now on that, of the perpetually-moving arms.  She fancied she saw something of a corresponding movement on Roger’s part.  At length he went away, slowly, slowly, and often looking back, in spite of the tapped watch.  Mrs. Gibson at last retreated, and Molly quietly moved into her place to see his figure once more before the turn of the road hid it from her view.  He, too, knew where the last glimpse of the Gibsons’ house was to be obtained, and once more he turned, and his white handkerchief floated on the air.  Molly waved hers high up, with eager longing that it should be seen.  And then, he was gone! and Molly returned to her worsted-work, happy, glowing, sad, content, and thinking to herself how sweet is—­friendship!

When she came to a sense of the present, Mrs. Gibson was saying,—­

’Upon my word, though Roger Hamley has never been a great favourite of mine, this little attention of his has reminded me very forcibly of a very charming young man—­a soupirant, as the French would call him—­ Lieutenant Harper—­you must have heard me speak of him, Molly?’

‘I think I have!’ said Molly, absently.

’Well, you remember how devoted he was to me when I was at Mrs Duncombe’s, my first situation, and I only seventeen.  And when the recruiting party was ordered to another town, poor Mr. Harper came and stood opposite the schoolroom window for nearly an hour, and I know it was his doing that the band played “The girl I left behind me,” when they marched out the next day.  Poor Mr. Harper!  It was before I knew dear Mr. Kirkpatrick!  Dear me.  How often my poor heart has had to bleed in this life of mine! not but what dear papa is a very worthy man, and makes me very happy.  He would spoil me, indeed, if I would let him.  Still he is not as rich as Mr. Henderson.’