Molly explained diplomatically.  Belle must be very polite to the new-comer; it was just an experiment—­“This would be a good chance to hint that I’m not going to keep both,” thought Molly, as Belle listened.

Belle disarmed her completely, however, by coming over to her with a suddenly bright face and asking in an awed voice: 

“Is it another baby?  Oh, you don’t know how glad I’d be!  The darling, darling little thing!”

Molly felt the tears come into her eyes—­a certain warmth creep about her heart.

“No,” she said smiling; “but I’m glad you will love it if it ever comes!” This was, of course, exactly what she did not mean to say.

“If we got Miss Marshall because of Uncle George’s money,” said Belle, huffily, departing, “I wish he hadn’t died!  There isn’t a thing in this world for her to do.”

Miss Marshall took kindly to idleness—­talking a good deal of previous cases, playing solitaire, and talking freely to Molly of various internes and patients who admired her.  She marked herself at once as unused to children by calling Timothy “little man,” and, except for a vague, friendly scrutiny of his tray three times a day, did nothing at all—­even leaving the care of her room to Belle.

After a week or two, Miss Marshall went away, to Belle’s great satisfaction, and Miss Clapp came.  Miss Clapp was forty, and strong and serious; she did not embroider or confide in Molly; she sat silent at meals, chewing firmly, her eyes on her plate.  “What would you like me to do now?” she would ask Molly, gravely, at intervals.

Molly, with Timothy asleep and Belle sweeping, could only murmur: 

“Why, just now,—­let me see,—­perhaps you’d like to write letters—­ or just read—­”

“And are you going to take little Timothy with you when he wakes up?”

Molly would evade the uncompromising eyes.

“Why, I think so.  The sun’s out now.  You must come, too.”

Miss Clapp, coming, too, cast a damper on the drive; and she persisted in talking about the places where she was really needed.

“Imagine a ward with forty little suffering children in it, Mrs. Tressady!  That’s real work—­that’s a real privilege!”

And after a week or two Miss Clapp went joyously back to her real work with a generous check for her children’s ward in her pocket.  She kissed Timothy good-by with the first tenderness she had shown.

“Didn’t she make you feel like an ant in an anthill?” asked Belle, cheerfully watching the departing carriage.  “She really didn’t take no interest in Timothy because there wasn’t a hundred of him!”

There was a peaceful interval after this, while Molly diligently advertised for “A competent nurse.  One child only.  Good salary.  Small family in country.”

No nurse, competent or incompetent, replied.  Then came the January morning when Belle casually remarked:  “Stupid!  You never wound it!” to the master of the house, who was attempting to start a stopped clock.  This was too much!  Mrs. Tressady immediately wrote the letter that engaged Miss Carter, a highly qualified and high-priced nursery governess who had been recommended by a friend.