But on this afternoon in question he was rummaging among his possessions for some studs he had mislaid, and, thinking Mollie would help him in the search, he went in quest of her. He found her in the close little kitchen, ironing a pile of handkerchiefs and starched things. The place felt like an oven that hot summer's afternoon, and poor Mollie's face was sadly flushed; she looked worried and overheated, and it was then that Audrey's words flashed on him with a sort of electrical illumination--'I am afraid Mollie is very often tired.' 'Did you want me, Cyril?' asked Mollie, a little wearily, as she tested another iron and then put it down again. 'Yes--no, it does not matter,' rather absently. 'Mollie, is there no one else who can do that work? This place is like a brick-kiln.' 'Well, there is only Biddy, you know, and she does get up the things so badly. You remember how you grumbled about your handkerchiefs--and no wonder, for they looked as though they were rough-dried--and so mamma said I had better do them for the future, because I could iron so nicely;' and Mollie gave a look of pride at the snowy pile beside her. But Cyril was not so easily mollified. 'I would rather have my things badly done than see you slave in this fashion,' he returned, with unwonted irritation. 'Mollie, does Miss Ross know you do this sort of thing?' 'Oh yes, of course; I always tell Miss Ross everything.' 'She must have a pretty good opinion of us by this time,' in a vexed voice. 'She knows it cannot be helped,' returned Mollie simply. 'She did say one day that she was very sorry for me, when she saw how tired I was--oh, she was so dear and sweet that day!--and once when I told her how my back ached, and I could not help crying a little, she said she would like to speak to mamma about me, but that she knew it was no business of hers.' 'Anyhow, I shall make it my business,' returned her brother decidedly; and he marched off to the drawing-room. Mrs. Blake was sitting in the window, marking some of Kester's new socks. She looked very cool and comfortable; the room was sweet with the scent of flowers. The contrast between her and Mollie struck Cyril very forcibly, and when his mother looked up at him with one of her caressing smiles, he did not respond with his customary brightness. 'Mother, I want to talk to you about Mollie,' he said with unusual abruptness, as he threw himself down in a cushioned chair opposite his mother's little work-table. 'Yes, dear,' she returned tranquilly, pausing to admire an exquisitely-worked initial. 'I found her in the kitchen just now, with her face the colour of a peony, ironing out a lot of things. The place was like a furnace; I could not have stood it for a quarter of an hour. Surely, mother, there is no need for Mollie to slave in this way.'