"Thank you very much, grandpapa," says Molly, with a little ominous gleam in her blue eyes. "You are too good. I am deeply sensible of all your kindness, but I really cannot see how my position has altered of late. As you have just discovered, I am now nineteen, and for so many years I have managed to look extremely well in white muslin." As she finishes her modest speech she feels she has gone too far. She has been almost impertinent, considering his age and relationship to her; nay, more, she has been ungenerous. Her small taunt has gone home. Mr. Amherst rises from his chair; the dull red of old age comes painfully into his withered cheeks as he stands gazing at her, slight, erect, with her proud little head upheld so haughtily. For a moment anger masters him; then it fades, and something as near remorse as his heart can hold replaces it. Molly, returning his glance with interest, knows he is annoyed. But she does not know that, standing as she now does, with uplifted chin and gleaming eyes, and just a slight in-drawing of her lips, she is the very image of the dead-and-gone Eleanor, that, in spite of her Irish father, her Irish name, she is a living, breathing, defiant Amherst. In silence that troubles her she waits for the next word. It comes slowly, almost entreatingly. "Molly," says her grandfather, in a tone that trembles ever so little,--it is the first time he has ever called her by her pet name,--"Molly, I shall take it as a great favor if you will accede to my request and accept--this." As he finishes he holds out to her a check, regarding her earnestly the while. The "Molly" has done it. Too generous even to hesitate, she takes the paper, and, going closer to him, lays her hand upon his shoulder. "I have been rude, grandpapa,--I beg your pardon,--and I am very much obliged to you for this money." So saying, she bends and presses her soft sweet lips to his cheek. He makes no effort to return the caress, but long after she leaves the room sits staring vaguely before him out of the dreary window on to the still more dreary landscape outside, thinking of vanished days and haunting actions that will not be laid, but carry with them their sure and keen revenge, in the knowledge that to the dead no ill can be undone. Molly, going back to the drawing-room, finds Cecil there, serene as usual. "Well, and where is my book?" asks that innocent. "I thought you were never coming." "Cecil, why did you tell grandpapa to offer me a dress?" demands Molly, abruptly. "My dearest girl!----" exclaims Cecil, and then has the grace to stop and blush, a little. "You did. There is no use your denying it." "You didn't refuse it? Oh, Molly, after all my trouble!"