Molly went into the house; but she did not go to Susan. She would be too much afraid to inquire of Susan, who, with all her good nature, could be cross enough at times, that is, when she thoroughly disapproved of the young ladies' racketings, as she called them. What Molly really did was to slip up to her own bedroom, put on her most becoming hat, catch up her white parasol, take up a similar parasol and hat for Ethel, with a pair of gloves for each, and rush swiftly downstairs. No one heard her enter the house, and no one heard her go downstairs again. "Thanks," said Ethel, when she saw her hat with its accompanying pins, observed the parasol, and welcomed the gloves. "Is mother all right?" she said. "Yes, she is having a lovely sleep. Now do let us come along." "You may as well stay and have a game of tennis," said Jim, who after Molly's return to the house concluded that things must be all right. "Yes, that would be splendid," said Clara, "and you could stay to supper if you liked." How very nearly had that delightful afternoon been spoiled. This was Molly's thought; but it was the mother herself who had saved it. The dear little mother who wouldn't like her children to be put out. And of course she was in such a lovely sleep. That queer attack she had had when Molly was in the room! But Molly would not let herself think of that. Mother was queer now and then, and sometimes the doctor had to be sent for in a hurry; but it was nothing serious. All mother's attacks were just nervous storms, so the doctor called them. Signs of weakness, was Molly's explanation. Oh, yes, the attack was nothing, nothing at all, and what a splendid time she and Ethel were having. CHAPTER NINE. THE TRUTH ABOUT MRS ALDWORTH.