"I wanted to show you something," she returned, in a low voice; "but perhaps if you make a blaze you will be able to see it. Oh, what is that?" as Waveney mutely held out a long brown paper parcel. "Is that another present? No, please don't open it; you must look at this one first." And then Mollie, with outward gravity, and much inward excitement, laid a beautiful Russian leather writing-case on the rug for Waveney's inspection. Never had Waveney seen such a case, so dainty, so complete, so perfectly finished. The initials "M. W." were on everything--the silver paper-knife and penholders, and on the tiny card-case and inkstand; and every card and sheet of paper was stamped with Mollie's address. Waveney was silent from excess of admiration, and also from a strong feeling of emotion. Only a lover, she thought, could have planned all those pretty finishes and details. Surely, surely Mollie's eyes must be opened now! "Mollie, dear, I really don't know what to say," she answered, at last, when the silence became embarrassing. "It is really too beautiful for any one but Cinderella." Then a little conscious smile came to Mollie's lips, and her cheeks wore their wild-rose flush; and yes, certainly, there was a new wistfulness in her eyes. "Was it not splendid of Mr. Ingram!" she said; but her voice was not quite steady. "It was so kind that I could not help crying a little, and then father laughed at me. I can't understand father, Wave. When I asked him if I ought to write and thank Mr. Ingram, he got quite red, and said that I must know my own feelings best. It was so odd of father to say that." "Did Mr. Ingram write to you, Mollie?" "No," returned Mollie, with her cheeks a still deeper rose. "There was only a slip of paper, with Monsieur Blackie's good wishes. But Wave, he is not coming back for a long time--he told me so. He said society had claims on him, and that he had a house-party impending, and other engagements; but I did not like to question him." "Well, then, I suppose you had better write--only just a short note, Mollie; and pray, pray do not be too grateful. If he gives you presents, it is to please himself as well as you. But you do not know his address, you silly child." "No," returned Mollie, with a sigh; "that is one of his mysteries. He calls himself a nebulous personage. 'If you ever want to write to me,' he said, the last time he came, 'if your father breaks his leg, for example, or my friend the humourist plays any of his tricks and requires chastisement, and the strong arm of the law, you can ask my cousin Althea to send on the letter for you.' Is that not a funny, roundabout way?"