"If father wishes it I will get the things," she said to Mollie; "but I never enjoy anything unless you share it." But Mollie would not listen to this. "What does it matter about me?" she said, gaily. "I am only a poor little Cinderella whose pumpkin coach has not arrived. My old jacket will do quite well until Christmas." And then, when the purchases were made, Mollie was like a sunbeam for the rest of the day. Waveney went twice to the Hospital before she started for Erpingham, but each time she found McGill more rambling and confused; and though he roused at the sound of her voice, he always thought she was Sheila. Corporal Marks looked more dejected than ever, but he maintained that the sergeant was doing finely. Waveney thought it was only the little man's natural pugnacity and habit of arguing, and that he did not really believe his own assertion; but though he pretended to grumble, he nursed his friend devotedly. "That there corporal never leaves him," one of the pensioners remarked to Waveney. "You would think they were brothers to see them--and fight they would, too, about those plaguey Sepoys, that you might have taken them for a pair of kilkenny cats. But bless you, miss, it was just for the fun of it." The days slipped away all too fast; and one morning Mollie awoke with the thought that only one whole day remained before Waveney left home. They were very busy all the morning, packing her box, and in the afternoon Waveney, who felt restless and rather low-spirited at the sight of Mollie's woe-begone face, proposed they should visit their favourite haunts, the lime avenue, old Ranelagh and the Embankment. "It is so warm, and the house feels so stuffy!" she added; for Waveney loved air and exercise, and would gladly have been out of doors the greater part of the day. Mollie willingly assented to this, but she was languid and out of spirits, and soon grew tired; so they sat down under an acacia in old Ranelagh and watched the children playing round them. It was one of those golden days of September, when the very air seems impregnated with strange sweet fragrance, when one thinks of waving corn-fields, and how the wheat ripples in the breeze like a yellow sea; and of deep, quiet lanes--with nut copses and blackberry thickets--or, better still, of a hillside clothed with purple heather, as though Nature had flung one of her royal robes aside. A day when the grand old earth seemed mellow and ripe for the sickle of old Time, and a soft sadness and sense of quiet brooding are over everything. "The summer is over," it seemed to say, "and the fleeting shows of youth, and the fruits of the earth are garnered in Nature's storehouse, and the feast of all good things is ready; so eat and enjoy, and be thankful."