“Dr. Darwin—who died in 1802, and whose ‘Life’ was writ by Miss Anna Seward,” murmured Polly, less stirred than Molly, though she, too, ranked among the great admirers of Scott’s poetry. “A young man desires to speak with Miss Baron.” The butler’s solemn voice came as a surprise. They had not heard the door open. Polly and Molly exchanged glances. “His name, Drake?” the former asked. “The young man declines to give his name, Miss.” “But what does he want to see me for?” “He says that Miss Baron will know him. He—in fact, Miss, he will not take a refusal. If it is your wish that he should be turned away——” “Make him say what he wants,” suggested Polly. “Is he a gentleman, Drake?” asked Molly. “He”—and a pause—“is extremely shabby, Miss.” “What are we to do, Polly?” “If it is your wish that the young man should be turned away, Miss——” Drake advanced no farther. Somebody from behind put him quietly on one side, with a gentle shove, and walked past him, straight into the room. Drake was indignant, yet not so indignant as he ought to have been. Some vague influence, which he afterwards declared to have been an instinctive knowledge of the state of the case, withheld him from any show of wrath. The young man came quickly nearer to where the two girls sat. He was of good medium height, with a boyish look; and he wore a rough travel-stained coat, ill-made and ill-fitting; while his boots were cut through, his trousers were soiled, his hair was of an odd mottled colour, as if it had once been dark and were turning fair. But— “You ask to know what I want,” he said in a laughing voice. A pair of large grey eyes were turned full upon them both. “I want—Molly!” Molly did not shriek, did not even exclaim. It was Polly who cried out in astonishment. Not Molly. Nor did Molly hesitate for one quarter of a second. As she met Roy’s glance, she was in his arms, clinging to him in a voiceless rapture. Neither of the two spoke. Roy stood perfectly still, his head bent low over the faithful little sister, who held him fast in a vehement clutch of joy. Drake came some steps closer, understanding, yet scarcely able to believe what his own sight told him. Polly stood gazing at the pair, her eyes full of tears. “I’m not fit to be touched,” Roy said at length, in an odd husky voice. “Don’t, Molly! I shall spoil your nice things. I’ve been on the tramp for days.” She half loosened him, then returned to the charge, with another passionate clasp; and Polly’s tears now were running down her cheeks. Roy broke into a queer hard sound, not far removed from a sob, though he tried to turn it into a laugh; and he kissed and kissed again the top of Molly’s head. Her face was out of reach, buried in his rough coat. Then Polly pulled one of Molly’s hands, trying to wrench asunder that frantic hold.