"The Squire says he will consider it as though you and Roper had not taken the cottage; and he thinks he can find some one to rent it who will buy the furniture of you--that is, if you prefer to sell it," she resumed very kindly. "And I think you had better come back to us, Grizzel. The new maid in your place does not suit at all." Grizzel took down her apron and rubbed her eyes. "It's very good of you, ma'am--and of the master--and I'd like to come back only for one thing. I'm afraid Molly would let me have no peace in my life: she'd get tanking at me about Roper before the others. Perhaps I'd hardly be able to stand it." "I will talk to her," said Mrs. Todhetley, rising to leave. "Where is Mary Standish to-day?" "Gone over to Alcester, ma'am. She had a errand there she said. But I think it was only to tell her folks the tale of my trouble." Molly had her "talking to" at once. It put her out a little; for she was really feeling some pity for Grizzel, and did not at all intend to "get tanking" at her. Molly had once experienced a similar disappointment herself; and her heart was opening to Grizzel. After her dinner was served that evening, she ran over to the cottage, in her coarse cooking apron and without a bonnet. "Look here," she said, bursting in upon Grizzel, sitting alone in the dusk. "You come back to your place if you like--the missis says she has given you the option--and don't you be afeard of me. 'Tisn't me as'll ever give back to you a word about Roper; and, mind, when I says a thing I mean it." "Thank you, Molly," humbly replied poor Grizzel, catching her breath. "The sooner you come back the better," continued Molly, fiercely. "For it's not me and that wench we've got now as is going to stop together. I had to call the missis into the dairy this blessed morning, and show her the state it was in. So you'll come back, Grizzel--and we'll be glad to see you." Grizzel nodded her head: her heart was too full to speak. "And as to that false villain of a Roper, as could serve a woman such a pitiful trick, I only wish I had the doctoring of him! He should get a--a--a----" Molly's voice, pitched in a high tone, died gradually away. What on earth was it, stepping in upon them? Some most extraordinary object, who opened the door softly, and came in with a pitch. Molly peered at it in the darkness with open mouth. A cry from Grizzel. A cry half of terror, half of pain. For she had recognized the object to be a man, and George Roper. George Roper with his hair and handsome whiskers cut off, and white sleeves in his brown coat--so that he looked like a Merry Andrew. He seemed three parts stupefied: not at all like a traveller in condition to set off to America. Sinking into the nearest wooden chair, he stared at Grizzel in a dazed way, and spoke in a slow, questioning, wondering voice. "I can't think what it is that's the matter with me." "Where be your whiskers--and your hair?" burst forth Molly.