ughs, and disappears, while Molly follows Marcia into a small
drawing-room, a sort of general boudoir, where the ladies of the
household are in the habit of assembling after breakfast, and into
which, sooner or later, the men are sure to find their way.

Marcia settles down to the everlasting macrame work on which she seems
perpetually engaged, while indolent Molly sits calmly, and it must be
confessed very contentedly, with her hands before her.

After a considerable silence, Marcia says, icily:

"I fear you will find Herst Royal dull. There is so little to amuse one
in a house where the host is an invalid. Do you read?"

"Sometimes," says Molly, studying her companion curiously, and putting
on the air of ignorance so evidently expected.

"Yes? that is well. Reading is about the one thing we have to occupy
our time here. In the library you will probably be able to suit yourself.
What will you prefer? an English work? or"--superciliously--"perhaps
French? You are without doubt a French scholar."

"If you mean that I consider myself complete mistress of the French
language," says Molly, meekly, "I must say no."

"Ah! of course not. The remote country parts in which you live afford,
I dare say, few opportunities of acquiring accomplishments."

"We have a National School," says Molly, with increasing mildness, and
an impassive countenance.

"Ah!" says Marcia again. Her look--her tone--say volumes.

"You are very accomplished, I suppose," says Molly, presently, her
voice full of resigned melancholy. "You can paint and draw?"

"Yes, a little."

"And play, and sing?"

"Well, yes," modestly; "I don't sing much, because my chest is
delicate."

"Thin voice," thinks Molly to herself.

"How fortunate you are!" she says aloud. "How I envy you! Why, there is
positively _nothing_ you cannot do! Even that macrame, which seems
to me more difficult than all the other things I have mentioned, you
have entirely mastered. Now, I could not remember all those different
knots to save my life. How clever you are! How attractive men must find
you!" Molly sighs.

A shade crosses Marcia's face. Her eyelids quiver. Although the shaft
(be it said to Molly's praise) was innocently shot, still it reached
her cousin's heart, for has she not failed in attracting the one man
she so passionately loves?

"I really hardly know," Miss Amherst says, coldly. "I--don't go in for
that sort of thing. And you,--do you paint?"

"Oh, no."