“Tut! tut! thin, old woman. Wasn’t I just foolin’ wid ye? What’s the hurry skurry about anyway? If we want him we’ll get him, an’ that’s no lie. Molly darlin’, pass me a spill. Divil a draw can I get out of this pipe o’ mine, at all, at all.” And Ma recognised that for the present the discussion was at an end. But Paul was making his plans for departure. He had written two letters, Molly knew, for she had posted them. He had been down to the fort to see the sergeant, and Molly resolved that she would jog the elbow of fate. “My! I wish I could play,” she said to Paul as he was allowing his fingers to carry his fancy whither it would. “But you can, Molly,” said Paul, his generosity straining his conscience. “Huh! ‘Silvery Waves,’ ‘Clayton’s Grand’ and ‘The Maiden’s Prayer!’” The infinite and bitter contempt in Molly’s voice startled Paul. “Hello, Molly! Where did you get that?” he asked. “From you,” said Molly sullenly. “I’ve heard you play.” “Well, Molly, you are surely coming on. You have learned something you will never forget.” “Say, Paul, I wish—I wish—you would learn—teach me to play! Say! Pa’s goin’ to offer you a job as his foreman. Won’t you take it—an’—an’—learn me to play?” There was no egotism in Paul. He had no knowledge of the moods and ways of girls. But his instincts were true and his intuitions keen. Something in the girl’s voice and in her big blue eyes made him horribly uneasy. He was conscious of a quick desire to save her from humiliation. “This is music, Molly, and simple, too. Listen!” He played with exquisite finish a Sonatina of Mozart, one of his childhood’s lessons. “You could learn that easily. See! there’s the motif of the thing, the main tune, I mean. I’ll write it down for you and teach you.” Without giving her a chance to renew her request, he went on from one simple thing to another of the great masters, till the entrance of her mother gave him a chance to escape. But Molly was not deceived. “He won’t stay, Ma,” she said, her lips trembling. “What? Who?” inquired her mother sharply, with a quick glance at the girl’s face. “Here, Molly, them milk cans is to wash and your Pa will be round here in ten minutes raisin’ Cain—an’——” “He’s goin’, Ma,” persisted Molly, her lips quivering. “I don’t believe he’s goin’. Pa hasn’t said nothin’ to him yet. You get on with your work or you’ll ketch it. Your Pa is goin’ to talk to him today. Come! git a hustle on!” The edge on Ma’s tongue sent Molly about her work, but only served to confirm the girl in her opinion. She knew her mother. Wearily she went to the milk cans. Ma found an opportunity for a brief but pointed word with her husband before he set off on his trip with the milk for the Fort. “Offer him big money, Pa. Don’t be mean. It’s not him I’m thinkin’ av,” she said, helping her husband to load the milk cans.