usual time of his visits, and no one was expecting him; all the stablemen were in the fields, but that signified little to Mr Gibson; he walked his horse about for five minutes or so before taking him into the stable, and loosened his girths, examining him with perhaps unnecessary exactitude.  He went into the house by a private door, and made his way into the drawing-room, half expecting, however, that Molly would be in the garden.  She had been there, but it was too hot and dazzling now for her to remain out of doors, and she had come in by the open window of the drawing-room.  Oppressed with the heat, she had fallen asleep in an easy-chair, her bonnet and open book upon her knee, one arm hanging listlessly down.  She looked very soft, and young, and childlike; and a gush of love sprang into her father’s heart as he gazed at her.

‘Molly!’ said he, gently, taking the little brown hand that was hanging down, and holding it in his own.  ‘Molly!’

She opened her eyes, that for one moment had no recognition in them.  Then the light came brilliantly into them and she sprang up, and threw her arms round his neck, exclaiming,—­

’Oh, papa, my dear, dear papa!  What made you come while I was asleep?  I love the pleasure of watching for you.’

Mr. Gibson turned a little paler than he had been before.  He still held her hand, and drew her to a seat by him on a sofa, without speaking.  There was no need; she was chattering away.

’I was up so early!  It is so charming to be out here in the fresh morning air.  I think that made me sleepy.  But isn’t it a gloriously hot day?  I wonder if the Italian skies they talk about can be bluer than that—­that little bit you see just between the oaks—­there!’

She pulled her hand away, and used both it and the other to turn her father’s head, so that he should exactly see the very bit she meant.  She was rather struck by his unusual silence.

’Have you heard from Miss Eyre, papa?  How are they all?  And this fever that is about?  Do you know, papa, I don’t think you are looking well?  You want me at home to take care of you.  How soon may I come home?’

’Don’t I look well?  That must be all your fancy, goosey.  I feel uncommonly well; and I ought to look well, for——­I have a piece of news for you, little woman.’ (He felt that he was doing his business very awkwardly, but he was determined to plunge on.) ’Can you guess it?’

‘How should I?’ said she; but her tone was changed, and she was evidently uneasy, as with the presage of an instinct.

‘Why, you see, my love,’ said he, again taking her hand, ’that you are in a very awkward position—­a girl growing up in such a family as mine —­young men—­which was a piece of confounded stupidity on my part.  And I am obliged to be away so much.’

‘But there is Miss Eyre,’ said she, sick with the strengthening indefinite presage of what was to come.  ’Dear Miss Eyre, I want nothing but her and you.’