When she had once got to the seat she broke out with a suppressed passion of grief; she did not care to analyze the sources of her tears and sobs—­her father was going to be married again—­her father was angry with her; she had done very wrong—­he had gone away displeased; she had lost his love, he was going to be married—­away from her—­away from his child—­his little daughter—­forgetting her own dear, dear mother.  So she thought in a tumultuous kind of way, sobbing till she was wearied out, and had to gain strength by being quiet for a time, to break forth into her passion of tears afresh.  She had cast herself on the ground—­that natural throne for violent sorrow—­and leant up against the old moss-grown seat; sometimes burying her face in her hands; sometimes clasping them together, as if by the tight painful grasp of her fingers she could deaden mental suffering.

She did not see Roger Hamley returning from the meadows, nor hear the click of the little white gate.  He had been out dredging in ponds and ditches, and had his wet sling-net, with its imprisoned treasures of nastiness, over his shoulder.  He was coming home to lunch, having always a fine midday appetite, though he pretended to despise the meal in theory.  But he knew that his mother liked his companionship then; she depended much upon her luncheon, and was seldom downstairs and visible to her family much before the time.  So he overcame his theory, for the sake of his mother, and had his reward in the hearty relish with which he kept her company in eating.

He did not see Molly as he crossed the terrace-walk on his way homewards.  He had gone about twenty yards on the small wood-path at right angles to the terrace, when, looking among the grass and wild plants under the trees, he spied out one which was rare, one which he had been long wishing to find in flower, and saw it at last, with those bright keen eyes of his.  Down went his net, skilfully twisted so as to retain its contents, while it lay amid the herbage, and he himself went with light and well-planted footsteps in search of the treasure.  He was so great a lover of nature that, without any thought, but habitually, he always avoided treading unnecessarily on any plant; who knew what long-sought growth or insect might develop itself in what now appeared but insignificant?

His steps led him in the direction of the ash-tree seat, much less screened from observation on this side than on the terrace.  He stopped; he saw a light-coloured dress on the ground—­somebody half-lying on the seat, so still just then, he wondered if the person, whoever it was, had fallen ill or fainted.  He paused to watch.  In a minute or two the sobs broke out again—­the words.  It was Miss Gibson crying out in a broken voice,—­

‘Oh, papa, papa! if you would but come back!’