"We have been discussing something delightful for the past five minutes,--something downright delicious; but we can do nothing without you. Will you help us, grandpapa? will you?" She asks all this with the prettiest grace, gazing down undaunted into the sour old face raised to hers. "Why are you spokeswoman?" demands he, in a tone that makes the deeply attentive Cecil within groan aloud. "Well--because--I really don't believe I know why, except that I chose to be so. But grant me this, my first request. Ah! do, now, grandpapa." The sweet coaxing of the Irish "Ah!" penetrates even this withered old heart. "What is this wonderful thing you would have me do?" asks he, some of the accumulated verjuice of years disappearing from his face; while Lady Stafford, from behind the curtain, looks on trembling with fear for the success of her scheme, and Marcia listens and watches with envious rage. "We want you to--give a ball," says Molly, boldly, with a little gasp, keeping her large eyes fixed in eager anxiety upon his face, while her pretty parted lips seem still to entreat. "Say 'yes' to me, grandpapa." How to refuse so tender a pleading? How bring the blank that a "No" must cause upon her _riante_, lovely face? "Suppose I say I cannot?" asks he; but his tone has altered wonderfully, and there is an expression that is almost amiable upon his face. The utter absence of constraint, of fear, she displays in his presence has charmed him, being so unlike the studied manner of all those with whom he comes in contact. "Then I shall cry my eyes out," says Molly, still lightly, though secretly her heart is sinking. There is a perceptible pause. Then Mr. Amherst says, slowly, regretfully: "Crying will come too soon, child. None escape. Keep your eyes dry as long as your heart will let you. No, you shall not fret because of me. You shall have your ball, I promise you, and as soon as ever you please." So saying, and with a quick movement of the hand that declines all thanks, he moves away, leaving Molly to return to the boudoir triumphant, though somewhat struck and saddened by his words and manner. "Let me embrace you," cries Cecil, tragically, flinging herself into her arms. "Molly, Molly, you are a siren!" Without a word or a look, Marcia rises slowly and quits the room. * * * * * The invitations are issued, and unanimously accepted. A ball at Herst is such a novelty, that the county to a man declare their intention of being present at it. It therefore promises to be a great success.