wardly resolved that, for poor Lucy's sake, and partly, to confess the truth, because she fancied Anne would prove an interesting companion to herself during the months that Percy might choose to devote to his erratic tendencies, she would show a little kindness to Lucy's eldest daughter, and invite her on a short visit. Nothing there was in little Anne's quiet face to arouse her vaguest suspicion of danger; she was never the woman Percy would be fascinated by! But Molly, with her brilliant colouring and her rounded elegance-Molly, whose heart was steeled to all men saving one, should never, mentally vowed Mrs Thorne, show her bewitching face in the gloom of the Poplars.

CHAPTER XI.

MOLLY'S FIRST OFFER.

Two months went by. Autumn, beautifully cruel, began to thin the foliage of that refreshing little cluster of trees on the top of Blatchington hill, and to scatter the russet-brown leaves in heaps upon the Bloomfields' modest lawn. In the quiet bay below, the decline of summer's glory was marked by a gradual decrease of visitors to the shingle, and by the earlier appearance of the friendly light smiling over the water from the distant Newhaven pier. Nanny had been carried off for her primal introduction to the Poplars, to spend a few days in sombre state with Mrs Thorne, and so upon Molly devolved the hitherto unknown cares of household matters and daughterly duties, which gave her thought sufficient for the day, and obliged her to defer mere egotistical indulgence till the golden evening.

"What are you pondering over, my little

woman?" said the master, putting down his book, for the shadows were deepening, as he looked across the dusk-lined room to the deep window-sill wherein Molly sat curled, her head propped up with both her hands. "I've not known you keep quiet so many minutes for ever so long."

Molly's face

grew scarlet. She was grateful to the sheltering twilight.

"Daddy, isn't it dreadful how the leaves will tumble right down on the grass plot?"

Little hypocrite! She had been making a calculation as to the date when she last heard from the Lodge, scarcely thinking at all, but re-acting in a dreamy way the scenes of that too well-remembered visit.

"I think," she went on, "I might as well get a broom and sweep them all up for the hundred and fiftieth time."

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That I should say to be waste labour, my pet. You can't sweep them back to the trees, and it may give you cold. The wind 's chilly."

"Stuff and nonsense!" Molly rose from her low window-seat, and laughingly rolled her sleeves to the elbow. "See! there's a pair of brawny arms!

'The muscles of her brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.'

I can match strength with a blacksmith any day, I tell you."

"I wish you'd stay and play the 'Blacksmith' indoors, instead of playing at one outside."

But Molly was wilful.

"Sweeping away dead leaves has a fascination for me; and when I've done my work, I'll sit still and play a number of tame tunes, old Padds, and sing you to sleep whether you like it or not. To satisfy your dear old fidgits I'll tie up my head."

She was exquisitely pretty, standing erect in the pale sweet light with bare arms and a handkerchief fastened over her curls, the ends meeting à la Stuart on her low white brow. Her father forgot all her waywardness and want of thought in contemplating her.

"Have your own way, then, Moll; I suppose you must. I wonder if you'll ever grow old!"

"It's just possible my nose and chin may meet one day, if that's what you mean, Padds; but I'm certain I'll never grow out of liking to have my own way, and never grow too old,

I believe, to enjoy bulls-eyes and what we call 'larks-good-bye!"

She was off, then, through the window, shutting it carefully again from her place on the gravel-path. He heard her calling to Betsy for a broom, and neither heard nor saw her again till she came in, pale, with the suppertray.

She began her self-allotted task in right earnest, using her broom with a vigorous hand, so that the leaves she drove before it were gathered together en masse in a creditably short time. But when the undertaking was half accomplished, she went to the gate to rest, and the long handle affixed to the bundle of dried twigs reposed at full length on the turf beside the mound of withered leaves. Crossing her bare round arms on the top of the gate, she leaned forward and looked down the quiet road, watching the play of shadows thrown from the trees, indulging the dreamy self-absorption common to young girls when they feel upon them all the charmed spell of first and hopeful love. Presently a rider rounded the curve of the hill; Molly watched him curiously as he advanced,