"Ah, indeed, Miss Massereene, and so 'twas. But you are tired, my dear, no doubt, and a'most faint for a glass of wine. Come and take off your things and rest yourself a bit, while I tell Mr. Amherst of your arrival." In half an hour, refreshed and feeling somewhat bolder, Molly descends, and, gaining the library door, where her grandfather awaits her, she opens it and enters. As, pale, slender, black-robed, she advances to his side, Mr. Amherst looks up. "You have come," he says, holding out his hand to her, but not rising. There is a most unusual nervousness and hesitancy about his manner. "Yes. You wrote for me, and I came," she answers simply, stooping, as in duty bound, to press her lips to his cheek. "Are you well?" he asks, scrutinizingly, struck by the difference in her appearance since last he saw her. "Yes, thank you, quite well." "I am sorry to see you in such trouble." There is a callousness about the way in which these words are uttered that jars upon Molly. She remembers on the instant all his narrow spleen toward the one now gone. "I am,--in sore trouble," she answers, coldly. A pause. Mr. Amherst, although apparently full of purpose, clearly finds some difficulty about proceeding. Molly is waiting in impatient silence. "You wished to speak to me, grandpapa?" she says, at length. "Yes,--yes. Only three days ago I heard you had been left--badly provided for. Is this so?" "It is." "And that"--speaking slowly--"you had made up your mind to earn your own living. Have I still heard correctly?" "Quite correctly. Mr. Buscarlet would be sure to give you a true version of the case." "The news has upset me." For the first time he turns his head and regards her with a steady gaze. "I particularly object to your doing anything of the kind. It would be a disgrace, a blot upon our name forever. None of our family has ever been forced to work for daily bread. And I would have you remember you are an Amherst." "Pardon me, I am a Massereene." "You are an Amherst." With some excitement and considerable irritation. "Your mother must count in some way, and you--you bear a strong resemblance to every second portrait of our ancestors in the gallery upstairs. I wrote, therefore, to bring you here that I might personally desire you to give up your scheme of self-support and come to live at Herst as its mistress." "'Its mistress'!" repeats Molly, in utter amazement. "And how about Marcia?" "She shall be amply portioned,--if you consent to my proposal." She is quite silent for a moment or two, pondering slowly; then, in a low, curious tone, she says: "And what is to become of my sister?" "Your step-sister-in-law, you mean." Contemptuously. "I dare say she will manage to live without your assistance." Molly's blue eyes here show signs of coming fight; so do her hands. Although they hang open and motionless at her sides, there is a certain tension about the fingers that in a quick, warm temperament betokens passion.