put
a few violets in a little pot on the chimney-piece. Was it quite sure
that Miss Dexter's life would be happier than that of the snorer on the
bed, who smiled once or twice in her noisy sleep?

"There is happiness in this world after all," mused Molly, soothed by
thoughts of the past day, by the stillness on the face of the earth, and
by a certain rest that came to her with all acts of kindness--a certain
lull to those activities of mind and instinct that constantly led her
out of the paths of peace.

This was a sacred time of the night to Molly. It was associated in her
mind with the best hours she had ever lived, hours of sick nursing and
devotion, hours of real use and help. For months now she had been living
entirely for herself, to fight her own battle and make her own way in a
hostile world. She had had much excitement and even real pleasure. Her
imagination had taken fire with the notion that she must assert herself
or be crushed in the race of life. Heavy ordinary people would find it
hard to understand Molly's strange idealisation of the glories of the
kingdom of this world which she meant to conquer. And if she were
frustrated in her passion for worldly success, there were capacities in
her which she as yet hardly suspected, but she did feel at times the
stirrings of evil things, cruelty, revenge, and she hardly knew what
else. How could people understand her? She shrank from understanding
herself.

But to-night she knew the inspiration of another ideal; she recognised
the possibility of aims in which self hardly counts. There had been
indeed a stir in the minds of all at Groombridge when they knew of the
final step taken by the heir. Molly, looking up at the great castle, on
her homeward drive, with its massive towers and its most commanding
position, had felt more and more impressed by an action on so big a
scale. It was impossible to be at Groombridge and not to feel the great
and noble opportunities its possession must give any remarkable man; and
the man who could give up such opportunities must be a very remarkable
man indeed. In Molly's self-engrossed life it had something of the same
effect as a great thunderstorm among mountains would have had in the
physical order.

And to-night it came over her again, and she seemed to be listening to
the echoes of a far vibrating sound. And might there not be happiness
for Mark Molyneux? Might it not be happiness for herself to give up the
wretched, uncomfo