“I want--I want,” fluttering all over,--“I want to thank you better than I did that--that dreadful night. I was so frightened I could scarcely understand. I understand more--now--and I want to tell you how grateful I am--and how grateful I shall be until I die--and I want to ask you to try not to think I was very wicked. I did not mean to be wicked--I was only vain and silly, and I thought it would be such a grand thing to--to have plenty of new dresses,” hanging her sweet, humble face, “and to wear diamonds, and be Lady Chandos, if--if Mr. Chandos came into the title. Of course that was wicked, but it was n't--I was n't as bad as I seemed. I was so vain that--that I was quite sure he loved me, and would be very glad if I married him. He always said he would.” And the tears rolled fast down her cheeks. “Poor Mollie!” said Gowan, patting the trembling hand as if it had been a baby's. “Poor child!” “But,” Mollie struggled on, penitently, “I shall never be so foolish again. And I am going to try to be good--like Aimée. I am learning to mend things; and I am beginning to make things for Tod. This,” holding up her work as proof, “is a dress for him. It is n't very well done,” with innocent dubiousness; “but Aimée says I am improving. And so, if you please, would you be so kind as not to think quite so badly of me?” It was all so humble and pretty and remorseful that he was quite touched by it. That old temptation to kiss and console her made it quite dangerous for him to linger. She was such a lovable sight with her tear-wet cheeks, and that dubious but faithfully worked-at garment of Tod's in her hand. “Mollie,” he said, “will you believe what I say to you?” “Oh, yes!” eagerly. “Then I say to you that I never believed you wicked for an instant,--not for one instant; and now I believe it less than ever; on the contrary, I believe you are a good, honest little creature. Let us forget Gerald Chandos,--he is not worth remembering. And go on with Tod's pinafores and dresses, my dear, and don't be discouraged if they are a failure at first,--though to my eyes that dress is a most sumptuous affair. And as to being like Aimée, you cannot be like any one better and wiser and sweeter than that same little maiden. There! I mean every word I have said.” “Are you sure?” faltered Mollie. “Yes,” he replied, “quite sure.” He shook hands with her, and, bidding her goodnight, left her standing in the narrow hall all aglow with joy. And he, outside, was communing with himself as he walked away. “She is as sweet in her way as--as the other,” he was saying. “And as well worth loving. And what a face she has, if one only saw it with a lover's eyes! What a face she has, even seeing it with such impartial eyes as mine!” “My dear Dolly!” said Aimée. “My dear Aimée!” said Dolly.