s more dutiful than devout,
and did not herself often reflect on what strength duty depended.

And Molly, who knew nothing of submission, yet ministered to the older
woman's peace by her music. When the men came out, Lord Groombridge took
a chair close to his wife's as if to share in her pleasure, and Edmund
moved out of Molly's sight. She sometimes heard the voice of Rose or of
Billy or of Mrs. Delaport Green, but not Sir Edmund's, and she naturally
thought he was listening, whereas part of the time he was reading a
review. But as the ladies were going up to bed, he said, looking into
the large, grey eyes:

"Who said she could do nothing but run like a deerhound and bandage like
a surgeon? And now I find she can play like an artist. What next?"

And Molly, standing in her room, said to herself that it had been the
happiest day of her life.

But a moment later the maid came in, and while helping to take off her
dinner dress, told her mistress that the kitchenmaid in a room near hers
was groaning horribly. It seemed that Lady Groombridge had given out
some medicine, and Lady Rose had sent up her hot-water bottle and her
spirit-lamp, and had advised that the bottle be constantly refilled
during the night.

"But I'm sure, miss, she shouldn't take that medicine. I took on myself
to tell her not to till I'd spoken to you, and I'm sure I don't know who
is going to sit up filling bottles to-night. Lady Groombridge's
maid"--in a tone of deep respect--"isn't one to be disturbed, and the
scullerymaid won't get to bed till one in the morning: this girl being
ill it gives her double work."

Molly instantly rose to the situation. She knew of better appliances
than the softest hot-water bottles, and soon after her noiseless
entrance into the housemaid's attic the pain had been relieved. But,
being a little afraid that the girl was threatened with appendicitis,
she knew that if that were the case the relief from the application she
had used was only temporary. However, the patient rested longer than she
expected. Molly sat by the open window, while behind her on the two
narrow beds lay the sick girl and the now loudly-snoring scullerymaid,
who had come up a little before twelve o'clock.

"Not quite six hours' sleep that girl will get to-night," mused Molly,
"and then downstairs again and two hours' work before the cook comes
down to scold her. What a life!"

But, after all, Molly had noticed the blush with which the girl had