But the sharp young eyes had noticed something unusual about Molly, and when, a few days later, she appeared at the village school, the children, with the thoughtlessness of youth, were ready to tease her unmercifully. They called her "crazy Molly," but they soon found she was not resentful in the least, and to all their laughs and taunts she listened in silence, only sometimes her sweet, weak smile faded into an expression of astonishment and pain. CHAPTER II. "WE DIDN'T MEAN." "I AM ashamed of you all!" It was Marian Morris' clear voice, raised in accents of indignation as she came upon a group of children in the street, surrounding Molly Lethbridge, who was on her way home from school. The vicar's daughter had arrived upon the scene in time to see one pull Molly's hair, another hustle her roughly, whilst the others were laughing with great enjoyment. In one moment Marian had pushed her way to Molly's side, and had taken her hand in a protecting clasp, whilst the child looked up at her with troubled, wistful eyes. "Shame on you to tease and worry one who cannot protect herself; to take delight in tormenting one whom God has made weaker than yourselves! Do you forget that He sees you, that He hears every jeering laugh, every mocking word?" The children scuttled away hastily, leaving Molly alone with her friend. Still holding the child by the hand Marian took her home. Rose Cottage looked as pretty as usual outside, but inside, everything was poverty-stricken. Marian was not surprised, for she had learnt that the money James Lethbridge should have given to his wife was spent mostly at the "White Hart," as the village inn was named. He had lost his former situation through his drunken habits, and seemed in the way of losing his new post if he continued the life he was leading. The baby was asleep in the cradle, and Mrs. Lethbridge was engaged in ironing. She dusted a chair, and offered it to her visitor, who begged her to continue her occupation. "I have brought Molly home," Marian explained, as she sat down. "The children were teasing her. I fear they make her unhappy." The mother glanced sadly at her little daughter, who had gone to the cradle, and was now imprinting a tender kiss on the baby's rosy cheek. "It seems a pity you are bound to send her to school," Marian continued, "for she learns but little, I think you told me?" "Almost nothing, miss; she knows her letters, and that's about all. But, of course, she must go to school. I should be glad enough to keep her at home to mind baby. I expect the children will leave off teasing her when they find she doesn't mind." "I think she does mind, but she is evidently not resentful. You don't send her to Sunday-school, Mrs. Lethbridge, do you?" "No, miss; I'm not bound to send her there, you see." "I think it is a pity she should not go. But perhaps you teach her on Sundays at home?" The mother shook her head, and looked a trifle ashamed as she said, hastily—