"Not that I mind working," he said. "I like work all right, but it's so slow, and we are getting older all the time. I rather fancied a vineyard; our parents are great on their cellars and might come round to a vineyard and wine. I spent some time in France before coming here, but it was hopeless. They won't look at a foreigner in their wine concerns. As a matter of fact I have some hopes of my own governor relenting. I am his only son, and he is getting tired of keeping me at arm's length. There's nothing really in the way; only he had another wife in view for me, and Margaret's father had another husband. _He_ is rather a cantankerous old party. Too much port wine is what is the matter with them both, that's my opinion; they're turning gouty." As Mr. John Smith talked he pulled his watch out of his pocket and sprung it open. In the back lay a tiny photograph. "That's Margaret," he said. The others bent over the faintly tinted portrait of a young girl, pretty and smiling, her wavy hair rippling on either side of a smooth brow. Mollie glanced at it absent-mindedly; the back of her brain, she felt, was moving to the front; in another moment it would be there. Mr. Smith looked affectionately at the pretty face. "That is my little girl," he repeated, "and I--I ought to tell you--you are so kind--my name is not really John Smith. I dropped my real name because I wanted to dodge my governor--teach him a lesson, you know, not to play fast and loose with his only son--poor old governor! I have written to him since I came to Silver Fields. My real name is--" Suddenly Mollie began to laugh. It had come in a flash--the long chair, the bandaged foot on a foot-rest, the watch with its back open, the tattooed anchor and rope on a lean wrist, and above all a pair of dark eyes (so like Dick's) crinkled up in a kindly smile: "You don't blow hard enough, little Polly," someone was saying, "try again." The hair above the dark eyes was white, but Mollie knew. "It's so _funny_," she cried, as they all looked at her, Prudence anxiously inquiring if she had "got it again". "I'm all right, Prue, but it's so funny. _I_ know who you are," she laughed again, turning to Mr. Smith. "Your name isn't John Smith at all. You are poor dear Richard. Who was so active. With the gout. And you are--you are my--" "Hush, Mollie!" said Prue. * * * * * Mollie sat up. She was still laughing. Aunt Mary stood beside her in hat and coat, her hands full of cardboard boxes from Buszard's. Grannie sat at the tea-table, and opposite her was old Mrs. Pell, who had put on her bonnet because it would soon be time for her to go. They all looked at Mollie, who continued to laugh. "It's nothing," she said. "It is only a fit of giggles. I have them sometimes." "Give the dear child her tea, Mary," said Grannie. "Her nerves are a little highly strung; her grandfather used to laugh just like that--poor dear Richard!" CHAPTER VII