ing fire throws upon the group outside
white arms of flame, as though petitioning them to enter and accept its
warm invitation.

Marcia, bending over the tea-tray, is looking tall and handsome, and
perhaps a degree less gloomy than usual. Philip, too, is present, also
tall and handsome; only he, by way of contrast, is looking rather more
moody than usual. Molly is absent; so is Luttrell.

Mr. Potts, hovering round the tea-table, like an over-grown clumsy bee,
is doing all that mortal man can do in the way of carrying cups and
upsetting spoons. There are few things more irritating than the clatter
of falling spoons, but Mr. Potts is above irritation, whatever his
friends may be, and meets each fresh mishap with laudable equanimity.
He is evidently enjoying himself, and is also taking very kindly to
such good things in the shape of cake as the morbid footman has been
pleased to bring.

Sir Penthony, who has sturdily declined to quit the battle-field,
stands holding his wife's cup on one side, while Mr. Lowry is supplying
her with cake on the other. There is a good deal of obstinacy mingled
with their devotion.

"I wonder where Molly can be?" Lady Stafford says, at length. "I always
know by instinct when tea is going on in a house. She will be sorry if
she misses hers. Why don't somebody go and fetch her? You, for
instance," she says, turning her face to Sir Penthony.

"I would fly to her," replies he, unmoved, "but I unfortunately don't
know where she is. Besides, I dare say if I knew and went I would find
myself unwelcome. I hate looking people up."

"I haven't seen her all day," says Mr. Potts, in an aggrieved tone,
having finished the last piece of plum-cake, and being much exercised
in his mind as to whether it is the seed or the sponge he will attack
next. "She has been out walking, or writing letters, or something,
since breakfast. I hope nothing has happened to her. Perhaps if we
instituted a search----"

At this moment, Molly, smiling, _gracieuse_, appears at the open
window and steps on the veranda. She is dressed in a soft blue clinging
gown, and has a flower, fresh-gathered, in her hair, another at her
throat, another held loosely in her slender fingers.

"Talk of an angel!" says Philip, softly, but audibly.

"_Were_ you talking of me?" asks modest Molly, turning toward him.

"Well, if ever I heard such a disgracefully conceited speech!" says
Lady Stafford, laughing. But Philip says, "We were," stil