CHAPTER XXIX.

"WHAT A TEASE YOU ARE, MOLLY!"

In the meantime a conversation of quite a different character is going on in the garden, under the drooping boughs of a fine old weeping-ash, the welcome shade of which is much sought by the girls in hot weather.

Molly is seated on a garden chair, working away industriously at something in the dress line, her work-basket on another chair by her side.

Seated just opposite to her is Dr. John Sinclair, his hat lying on the grass at his feet, and his head resting on his arms, which are folded behind it.

"And so this is what you have dropped in for," remarks Molly, shaking out her work.

"Yes," he says, gazing up into the sky. "We were on our way back, and just passing the Rosery gate when Mr. Ned ran out and stopped us. I represented that you would all be expecting Daisy home, that she had only her habit on, that she might be tired. All to no purpose, as I have told you. She must stop to tea, and surely someone could call for her later; and if not, why, Priscilla could take her home. And so," he concludes rather slowly, "I said I would call about eight o'clock. I--I thought perhaps Miss Honor would like to walk up with me in the cool of the evening, you know."

"O!" says Molly, shooting a little glance at him over her work.

"Do you think she would care to?" asks the doctor, bringing his arms forward and stooping to pick up his stick, which is also on the grass.

"I don't know really," replies Molly carelessly; "you had better ask her. I am not sure, though, that I shall not go myself. I suppose I should do as well? Dick wanted one of us to walk over to the mere this evening with him and Jack Bolton, and--yes, I think he said Ernest Hildyard was to be one of the party. Why, what in the world are you getting so red about? Don't, it makes one hotter than ever!" and Molly, biting her thread, takes another little look at her companion.

"Better stick to his reading," she hears him mutter to himself, and then he begins hitting at the turf with his stick.

"Well, he is a bit lazy, I suppose; but then so are lots of other people, and I don't see why he should be expected to stay in on such a lovely evening as this will be. Oh, _please_ take care! You'll hit my foot in a minute; besides, you are spoiling the turf."

"I'm sure I beg your pardon," says Dr. John, now stooping for his hat also. "I think I had better be going. I will call for Daisy alone, then."

"What has made you so cross?" inquires teasing Molly, searching amongst her cottons. "I really think it is most ungracious of you to say you 'will go _alone_ to fetch Daisy' when I have only this moment offered myself as a companion. Now, don't go--sit down again, and I will tell you something."

"Pooh!" mutters the young man crossly, "what's the use?"

"It _isn't_ pooh," says Molly severely; "and it is a great deal of use, if you choose to listen. _I_ am going on this expedition with the boys this evening, and Honor, as far as I know, is going to stay at home; unless," she wickedly adds, "you should care to ask _her_ instead of _me_ to walk up to the Rosery with you. If you do, and she does go, I advise you to be a little more amiable. Now, _please_ leave that silk alone: you are getting it into a frightful tangle!"

"What a tease you are, Molly!" says Dr. Sinclair, looking, however, more cheerful on the whole.

"I? Why? What have I said or done?"

"You said Honor was going for a walk with that young idiot, Hildyard."

"Well, why shouldn't she? But, as it happens, I did _not_ say anything of the kind. I said the boys wanted _one_ of us to go, and Honor never dreamed of going any more than _you_ did. You shouldn't jump at conclusions so quickly. Now, tell me, what do you think of this news about Doris?"

"O, I am awfully glad. I think from what you have all told me that Ferrars must be a nice fellow. We shall have you going off next, Molly."

"Me?--oh, dear no! Besides, it is Honor's turn before mine, you know."

"Is it true this that I hear about young Horton, or rather his regiment, being ordered off to the Soudan?"

"Yes," says Molly quietly, bending over her work. "It is quite true."

"When does he arrive from Ireland?"

"Mrs. Horton wrote us word that she expected him to-morrow."

"And _you_ will expect him the day after, I suppose?"

"I daresay he will come to see us soon," says Molly simply; "his time will be very short before he leaves altogether."

"Poor fellow!" says the doctor musingly. "It is a pity he is being sent so far away. Well, I must really be off now--by Jove, it's later than I thought! Good-bye for the present, Molly. Perhaps you would not mind asking Miss Honor if she will stroll up for Daisy with me? I'd no idea it was so late, or I would have run in and asked her myself."

"All right," says Molly reassuringly. "I'll see that she goes."

The girl looks after him as he goes swinging down the road.

"He's a nice fellow," she says to herself. "I shouldn't at all mind having him for a brother. I wonder, now, whether Honor likes him as much as he does her. Anyone can see with half an eye that it is not Daisy alone that he comes here to see. He's dreadfully jealous, though. He makes himself quite ridiculous over that young Hildyard, just because he stares at Honor so in church. Such a _child_, too, as Ernest is; and I don't believe Honor has ever spoken to him more than two or three times at the outside. It really is absurd. I can't help teasing Dr. John about it. All right, coming!" she cries, in answer to a summons to tea from Honor; and gathering up her work, she goes slowly back to the house.

There is perhaps more alteration in Molly's appearance than in any of the others in these two past years. She is now turned seventeen, and tall for her age. She carries herself gracefully, and her slight though rounded figure is shown to advantage to-day in the light, simply-made dress which she is wearing on account of the heat.

Molly's hair has been turned up for some time now, ever since she took to teaching, in fact. "You cannot expect me to command respect from my pupils with my hair hanging down my back," she had said when the others had been inclined to remonstrate. It is all gathered up, therefore, in a pretty top-knot of bright, sunny, chestnut curls, which, notwithstanding the number of pins she uses, do their best to escape and tumble, as of old, about her forehead, ears, and neck. She is not, perhaps, what most people would call strictly pretty; but she is _very_ charming, and her deep blue eyes, with their long lashes, are really beautiful. Her complexion though brilliant is at the same time delicate, and one of her greatest charms is in the ever-varying expression of her face. Her nose is not strictly aquiline, but her pretty sensitive mouth and firm little chin make up for its deficiencies; and last, but not least, there is the pretty way in which her hair grows about her forehead and temples.

Altogether Mrs. Merivale has reason to feel proud of her three now grown-up daughters, and she often turns away with a heavy sigh when she thinks with what fond pride their dead father would look upon them could he see them now.