n."

"Marcia?" asks Molly, feeling slightly disappointed at the "almost."

"Oh, dear, no,--not Marcia; she and I don't get on a bit too well
together, and she was excessively disagreeable all this morning: she is
her grandfather's own child. I am sure she need not visit Philip's
defection on me; but she has a horrible temper, and that's the truth.
No, I meant Tedcastle; he is my cousin also. I do so like Tedcastle:
don't you?"

"Very much indeed," coloring faintly. "But," hastily, "I have not yet
told you what brought me here to-day."

"Do you mean to tell me you had an object in coming?" cries her
ladyship, throwing up her little white jeweled hands in affected
reproach. "That something keener than a desire for my society has
brought you to my boudoir? You reduce me to despair! I did for one
short quarter of an hour believe you 'loved me for myself alone.'"

"No," laughing, and blushing, too, all through her pale clear skin, "I
confess to the object. I--the fact is--I have felt a little deceitful
ever since last night. Because--in spite of Marcia's superior
information on the subject, I have had some slight education, and I
_do_ know a little French!"

"Ah!" cries Lady Stafford, rising and blushing herself, a vivid
crimson: "you heard, you understood all. Well," with a sudden revival,
and a happy remembrance of her own words, "I didn't say anything bad,
did I?"

"No, no: I would not have come here if you had. You said all there was
of the kindest. You were _so_ kind. I could not bear to deceive
you or let you retain a false opinion of me. Marcia, indeed, outdid
herself, though I am guiltless of offense toward her. She is evidently
not aware of the fact that one part of my life was spent in London with
my aunt, my father's sister, and that while with her I had the best
masters to be found. I am sorry for Marcia, but I could not bring
myself to speak just then."

Cecil burst into a merry, irresistible laugh.

"It is delicious!" cries she, wickedly. "A very comedy of errors. If we
could but manage some effective way of showing Marcia her mistake. Can
you," with sudden inspiration, "sing?"

"I can," says Molly, calmly.

"You can. That sounds promising. I wonder you don't say 'a little,' as
all young ladies do, more especially when they sing a good deal more
than any one wants them to! Come here, and let me see what you mean by
that uncompromising 'can.'"

Opening a small cottage piano at the other end of he