"Oh, yes, Mollie, we decided that long ago." Waveney spoke in a calm and judicial voice, but Mollie only grew more flurried. "But I must do something to please him," she returned, in quite a distressed tone. "Think of all the pleasure he has given me, Wave. I have got such a lovely idea in my head. I have finished the _menu_-cards, and I want to paint one of these white velum pocket-books for Mr. Ingram--a spray of purple pansies would look so well on it. And I will have it all ready for him when he comes next. Don't you think he would be pleased, Wave?" "Of course he would be pleased, sweetheart; he would carry it next to his heart, and sleep with it under his pillow." But this nonsense was received rather pettishly. "I wish you would be serious when a person asks advice," returned Mollie, with a little frown. "You would not like any one to say those silly things to you." Then Waveney was on her best behaviour at once, and the naughty, mischievous sparkle faded out of her eyes. "Don't be cross, Mollie darling," she said caressingly. "I do think your idea very pretty, and I should think Mr. Ingram will be very pleased, he does admire your painting so. Why have you selected pansies, I wonder?" Then, at this very simple question, Mollie looked a little confused. "They are his favourite flowers," she almost whispered; "he says you can never have too much heart's-ease in this world." And this answer fully satisfied Waveney. The next morning they started off to Sloane Street to purchase the pocket-book, and Mollie expended the last of her earnings; and the moment Waveney left her, to return to Erpingham, she sat down to her little painting table and worked until the short winter's afternoon closed in. Waveney did not see it until it was finished, and then her admiration fully satisfied Mollie. It was a charming design, and a pansy with a broken stalk, dropping from the main cluster, had a very graceful effect. "Father likes it; he says I have never painted anything better!" observed Mollie, with modest pride; and Waveney cordially endorsed this. Privately she thought the dainty pocket-book was more fit for some youthful bride. "Mr. Ingram could not possibly use it," she said to herself; "he will put it under a glass case, or lock it up in a drawer. And if Mollie ever writes love-letters to him, he will keep them in his pansy-book." And then she smiled to herself as she thought of his delight when Mollie, with many blushes and much incoherence, should hand him the book; she could almost see the flash of pleasure in his eyes. But as her lively imagination pictured the little scene, she was far from guessing under what different circumstances Ingram would receive his pansy-book. CHAPTER XXVII. AN IDEALIST IN LOVE. "Whatever we gain, we gain by patience." S. TERESA. "Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now." _The Merry Wives of Windsor._