the
prettiest little place in all the world, I think; but then it _is_
little. It would require a tremendous amount of genius to lose one's
self in Brooklyn."

"How late it grows!" says Marcia, looking at the clock and rising. "The
first bell ought to ring soon. Which would you prefer,--your tea here
or in your own room? I always adopt the latter plan when the house is
empty, and take it while dressing. By the bye, you have not seen--Mr.
Amherst?"

"My grandfather? No."

"Perhaps he had better be told you are here."

"Has he not yet heard of my arrival?" asks Molly, impulsively, some
faint indignation stirring in her breast.

"He knew you were coming, of course; I am not sure if he remembered the
exact hour. If you will come with me, I will take you to the library."

Across the hall in nervous silence Molly follows her guide until they
reach a small anteroom, beyond which lies the "chamber of horrors," as,
in spite of all her efforts to be indifferent, Molly cannot help
regarding it.

Marcia knocking softly at the door, a feeble but rasping voice bids
them enter; and, throwing it widely open, Miss Amherst beckons her
cousin to follow her into the presence of her dreaded grandfather.

Although looking old, and worn, and decrepit, he is still evidently in
much better health than when last we saw him, trundling up and down the
terraced walk, endeavoring to catch some faint warmth from the burning
sun.

His eyes are darker and fiercer, his nose a shade sharper, his temper
evidently in an uncorked condition; although he may be safely said to
be on the mend, and, with regard to his bodily strength, in a very
promising condition.

Before him is a table covered with papers, from which he looks up
ungraciously, as the girls enter.

"I have brought you Eleanor Massereene," says Marcia, without preamble,
in a tone so kind and gentle as makes Molly even at this awful moment
marvel at the change.

If it could be possible for the old man's ghastly skin to assume a
paler hue, at this announcement, it certainly does so. With suppressed
but apparent eagerness he fixes his eyes upon the new grandchild, and
as he does so his hand closes involuntarily upon the paper beneath it;
his mouth twitches; a shrinking pain contracts his face. Yes, she is
very like her dead mother.

"How long has she been in my house?" he asks, presently, after a pause
that to Molly has been hours, still with his gaze upon her, though
beyond this