"I didn't mean any harm, sir; I won't ever listen again." "Quite right; never listen to anything you are not intended to know," agreed the Colonel. "You should have told us that you were there. And if I had found you out, listening, I should certainly have blamed you. But as you have voluntarily confessed, we will say no more about the matter. Now you may run away." Roy bounded off, in the best of spirits; and the pretty girl, with tall feathers in her bonnet, glided softly in his wake. She did not follow him far. She saw him vanish towards the garden, and she went towards the schoolroom. For Roy had told Molly about the Paris plan, and Polly guessed what that would be to Molly. Mary Keene and her brother John, commonly known as "Polly" and "Jack," were not really cousins to the twins, though treated as such. Their widowed grandmother, Mrs. Keene, had some fourteen years earlier married a second time, rather late in life; and her new husband, Mr. Fairbank, had one daughter, Harriette, wife of Colonel—then Captain—Baron of the Guards. Two or three years later her grandchildren, Jack and Polly, were left orphans, and were adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Fairbank. When Mr. Fairbank died, his twice-widowed wife took up her abode in Bath, at that date a fashionable place of residence for "the quality." Jack, who was a year or two older than Polly, had just been gazetted to a regiment of the line, quartered in Bath. Molly was very fond of Polly and of Jack; but no one could be to her like her twin-brother, and Roy's indifference had cut her to the quick. When Polly came in she at once detected a little heap in the corner of the schoolroom, and heard a smothered sob. She drew off her gloves, made her way to the corner, sat down upon the ground, and put a pair of gentle arms round the child. "Fie, little Molly, fie! This won't do at all. Crying to have to go home with me. That is wrong and silly. And so unkind, too. I wanted so much to have dear little Molly; and now I know she does not care to come. Molly, you little goose, don't you know people can't be always together? And you and I can't alter the world, to please ourselves. Roy is glad to go to Paris, of course. Fie, fie, Molly! cheer up, and don't be doleful. If you are unhappy, it makes other people unhappy; and that is such a pity. You don't want to make me cry too, do you?" The elder girl's eyes had a look in them of tears not far distant; as she bent over the child. "Other people have troubles as well as you, little Moll. We don't all—I mean they don't all—talk about their troubles. It is of no use. Things have to be borne, and crying does no good. So stop your tears, and think how agreeable it will be to see my grandmother and Jack, and the Pump Room, and all the fine ladies and gentlemen walking about in their gay clothes." A squeeze of Molly's arms came in reply.