"'why come you drest like a village maid

that are the flower of the earth?'

'if i come drest like a village maid

i am but as my fortunes are.'"

—lady clare.

it is close on october. already the grass has assumed its sober garb of brown; a general earthiness is everywhere. the leaves are falling,—not now in careful couples or one by one, but in whole showers,—slowly, sorrowfully, as though loath to quit the sighing branches, their last faint rustling making their death-song.

molly's visit has drawn to an end. her joyous month is over. to-day a letter from her brother reminding her of her promise to return is within her hand, recalling all the tender sweets of home life, all the calm pleasure she will gain, yet bringing with it a little sting, as she remembers all the gay and laughing hours that she must lose. for indeed her time at herst has proved a good time.

"i have had a letter from my brother, grandpapa: he thinks it is time i should return," she says, accosting the old man as he takes his solitary walk up and down one of the shaded paths.

"do you find it so dull here?" asks he, sharply, turning to read her face.

"dull? no, indeed. how should i? i shall always remember my visit to you as one of the happy events of my life."

"then remain a little longer," he growls, ungraciously. "the others have consented to prolong their stay; why should not you? write to your—to mr. massereene to that effect. i cannot breathe in an empty house. it is my wish, my desire that you shall stay," he finishes, irritably, this being one of his painful days.

so it is settled. she will obey this crabbed veteran's behest and enjoy a little more of the good the gods have provided for her before returning to her quiet home.

"you will not desert us in our increased calamities, molly, will you?" asks cecil, half an hour later, as molly enters the common boudoir where lady stafford and marcia sit alone, the men being absent with their guns, and mrs. darley consequently in the blues. "where have you been? we quite fancied you had taken a lesson out of poor dear maudie's book and retired to your couch. do you stay on at herst?" she glances up anxiously from her painting as she speaks.

"yes. grandpapa has asked me to put off my departure for a while. so i shall. i have just written to john to say so, and to ask him if i may accept this second invitation."

"do you think it likely he will refuse?" marcia asks, unpleasantly.

"he may. but when i represent to him how terribly his obduracy will distress you all, should he insist on my return, i feel sure he will relent," retorts molly, nonchalantly.

"now that mr. amherst has induced us all to stay, don't you think he might do something to vary the entertainment?" says cecil, in a faintly injured tone. "shooting is all very well, of course, for those who like it; and so is tennis; and so are early hours; but toujours perdrix. i confess i hate my bed until the small hours are upon me. now, if he would only give a ball, for instance! do you think he would, marcia, if he was asked?"

"how can i say?"

"would you ask him, dear?"

"well, i don't think i would," replies marcia, with a rather forced laugh; "for this reason, that it would not be of the slightest use. i might as well ask him for the moon. if there is one thing he distinctly abhors, it is a ball."

"but he might go to bed early, if he wished," persists cecil; "none of us would interfere or find fault with that arrangement. we would try and spare him, dear old thing. i don't see why our enjoyment should put him out in the least, if he would only be reasonable. i declare i have a great mind to ask him myself."

"do," says molly, eagerly, who is struck with admiration at the entire idea, having never yet been to a really large ball.

"i would rather somebody else tried it first," confesses cecil, with a frank laugh. "a hundred times i have made up my mind to ask a favor of him, but when i found myself face to face with him, and he fixed me with his eagle eye, i quailed. molly, you are a new importation; try your luck."

"well, i don't mind if i do," says molly, valiantly. "he can't say worse than 'no.' and here he is, coming slowly along under the balcony. shall i seize the present opportunity and storm the citadel out of hand? i am sure if i wait i shall be like bob acres and find my courage oozing out through my fingers."

"then don't," says cecil. "if he molests you badly, i promise to interfere."

molly steps on to the balcony, and, looking down, awaits the slow and languid approach of her grandfather. just as he arrives beneath her she bends over until he, attracted by her presence, looks up.

she is laughing down upon him, bent on conquest, and has a blood-red rose in one hand. she waves it slightly to and fro, as though uncertain, as though dallying about giving utterance to some thought that pines for freedom.

the old man, pausing, looks up at her, and, looking, sighs,—perhaps for his dead youth, perhaps because she so much resembles her mother, disowned and forgotten.

"have a rose, grandpapa?" says molly, stooping still farther over the iron railings, her voice sweet and fresh as the dead and gone eleanor's. as she speaks she drops the flower, and he dexterously, by some fortuitous chance, catches it.

"well done!" cries she, with a gay laugh, clapping her hands, feeling half surprised, wholly amused, at his nimbleness. "yet stay, grandpapa, do not go so soon. i—have a favor to ask of you."

"well?"

"we have been discussing something delightful for the past five minutes,—something downright delicious; but we can do nothing without you. will you help us, grandpapa? will you?" she asks all this with the prettiest grace, gazing down undaunted into the sour old face raised to hers.

"why are you spokeswoman?" demands he, in a tone that makes the deeply attentive cecil within groan aloud.

"well—because—i really don't believe i know why, except that i chose to be so. but grant me this, my first request. ah! do, now, grandpapa."

the sweet coaxing of the irish "ah!" penetrates even this withered old heart.

"what is this wonderful thing you would have me do?" asks he, some of the accumulated verjuice of years disappearing from his face; while lady stafford, from behind the curtain, looks on trembling with fear for the success of her scheme, and marcia listens and watches with envious rage.

"we want you to—give a ball," says molly, boldly, with a little gasp, keeping her large eyes fixed in eager anxiety upon his face, while her pretty parted lips seem still to entreat. "say 'yes' to me, grandpapa."

how to refuse so tender a pleading? how bring the blank that a "no" must cause upon her riante, lovely face?

"suppose i say i cannot?" asks he; but his tone has altered wonderfully, and there is an expression that is almost amiable upon his face. the utter absence of constraint, of fear, she displays in his presence has charmed him, being so unlike the studied manner of all those with whom he comes in contact.

"then i shall cry my eyes out," says molly, still lightly, though secretly her heart is sinking.

there is a perceptible pause. then mr. amherst says, slowly, regretfully:

"crying will come too soon, child. none escape. keep your eyes dry as long as your heart will let you. no, you shall not fret because of me. you shall have your ball, i promise you, and as soon as ever you please."

so saying, and with a quick movement of the hand that declines all thanks, he moves away, leaving molly to return to the boudoir triumphant, though somewhat struck and saddened by his words and manner.

"let me embrace you," cries cecil, tragically, flinging herself into her arms. "molly, molly, you are a siren!"

without a word or a look, marcia rises slowly and quits the room.

the invitations are issued, and unanimously accepted. a ball at herst is such a novelty, that the county to a man declare their intention of being present at it. it therefore promises to be a great success.

as for the house itself, it is in a state of delicious unrest. there is a good deal of noise, but very little performance, and every one gives voice now and then to the most startling opinions. one might, indeed, imagine that all these people—who, when in town during the season, yawn systematically through their two or three balls of a night—had never seen one, so eager and anxious are they for the success of this solitary bit of dissipation.

lady stafford is in great form, and becomes even more debonnaire and saucy than is her wont. even marcia seems to take some interest in it, and lets a little vein of excitement crop up here and there through all the frozen placidity of her manner; while molly, who has never yet been at a really large affair of the kind, loses her head and finds herself unable to think or converse on any other subject.

yet in all this beautiful but unhappy world where is the pleasure that contains no sting of pain? molly's is a sharp little sting that pricks her constantly and brings an uneasy sigh to her lips. perhaps in a man's eyes the cause would be considered small, but surely in a woman's overwhelming. it is a question of dress, and poor molly's mind is much exercised thereon.

when all the others sit and talk complacently of their silks and satins, floating tulles and laces, she, with a pang, remembers that all she has to wear is a plain white muslin. it is hard. no doubt she will look pretty—perhaps prettier and fairer than most—in the despised muslin; but as surely she will look poorly attired, and the thought is not inspiring.

no one but a woman can know what a woman thinks on such a subject; and although she faces the situation philosophically enough, and by no means despises herself for the pangs of envy she endures when listening to maud darley's account of the triumph in robes to be sent by worth for the herst ball, she still shrinks from the cross-examination she will surely have to undergo at the hands of cecil stafford as to her costume for the coming event.

one day, a fortnight before the ball, cecil does seize on her, and, carrying her off to her own room and placing her in her favorite chair, says, abruptly:

"what about your dress, molly?"

"i don't know that there is anything to say about it," says molly, who is in low spirits. "the only thing i have is a new white muslin, and that will scarcely astonish the natives."

"muslin! oh, molly! not but that it is pretty always,—i know nothing more so,—but for a ball-dress—terribly rococo. i have set my heart on seeing you resplendent; and if you are not more gorgeous than marcia i shall break down. muslin won't do at all."

"but i'm afraid it must."

"what a pity it is i am so much shorter than you!" says cecil, regretfully. "now, if i was taller we might make one of my dresses suit you."

"yes, it is a pity,—a dreadful pity," says molly, mournfully. "i should like to be really well dressed. marcia, i suppose, will be in satin, or something else equally desirable."

"no doubt she will deck herself out in oriental splendor, if she discovers you can't," says cecil, angrily.

there is a pause,—a decided one. cecil sits frowning and staring at molly, who has sunk into an attitude expressive of the deepest dejection. the little ormolu clock, regardless of emotion, ticks on undisturbed until three full minutes vanish into the past. then cecil, as though suddenly inspired, says, eagerly:

"molly, why not ask your grandfather to give you a dress?"

"not for all the world! nothing would induce me. if i never was to see a ball i would not ask him for sixpence. how could you think it of me, cecil?"

"why didn't i think of it long ago, you mean? i only wish he was my grandfather, and i would never cease persecuting him, morning, noon, and night. what is the use of a grandfather if it isn't to tip one every now and then?"

"you forget the circumstances of my case."

"i do not indeed. of course, beyond all doubt, he behaved badly; still——i really think," says cecil, in a highly moralizing tone, "there is nothing on earth so mistaken as pride. i am free from it. i don't know the meaning of it, and i know i am all the happier in consequence."

"perhaps i am more angry than proud."

"it is the same thing, and i wish you weren't. oh, molly! do ask him. what can it signify what he thinks?"

"nothing; but a great deal what john thinks. it would be casting a slight upon him, as though he stinted me in clothes or money, and i will not do it."

"it would be such a simple way," says cecil, with a melancholy sigh,—dear molly is so obstinate and old-fashioned; then follows another pause, longer and more decided than the last. molly, with her back turned to her friend, commences such a dismal tattoo upon the window-pane as would be sufficient to depress any one without further cause. her friend is pondering deeply.

"molly," she says, presently, with a fine amount of indifference in her tone,—rather suspicious, to say the least of it,—"i feel sure you are right,—quite right. i like you all the better for—your pride, or whatever you may wish to call it. but what a pity it is your grandfather would not offer you a dress or a check to buy it! i suppose"—quietly—-"if he did, you would take it?"

"what a chance there is of that!" says molly, still gloomy. "yes, if he offered it i do not think i could bring myself to refuse it. i am not adamant. you see"—with a faint laugh—"my pride would not carry me very far."

"far enough. let us go down to the others," says cecil, rising and yawning slightly. "they will think we are planning high treason if we absent ourselves any longer."

together they go down-stairs and into the drawing-room, which they find empty.

as they reach the centre of it, cecil stops abruptly, and, saying carelessly, "i will be back in one moment," turns and leaves the room.

the apartment is deserted. no sound penetrates to it. even the very fire, in a fit of pique, has degenerated into a dull glow.

molly, with a shiver, rouses it, throws on a fresh log, and amuses herself trying to induce the tardy flames to climb and lick it until lady stafford returns. so busy has she been, it seems to her as though only a minute has elapsed since her departure.

"this does look cozy," cecil says, easily sinking into a lounging-chair. "now, if those tiresome men had not gone shooting we should not be able to cuddle into our fire as we are doing at present. after all, it is a positive relief to get them out of the way,—sometimes."

"you don't seem very hearty about that sentiment."

"i am, for all that. with a good novel i would now be utterly content for an hour or two. by the bye, i left my book on the library table. if you were good-natured, molly, i know what you would do."

"so do i: i would get it for you. well, taking into consideration all things, your age and growing infirmities among them, i will accept your hint." and, rising, she goes in search of the missing volume.

opening the library door with a little bang and a good deal of reckless unconsciousness, she finds herself in mr. amherst's presence.

"oh!" cries she, with a surprised start. "i beg your pardon, grandpapa. if"—pausing on the threshold—"i had known you were here, i would not have disturbed you."

"you don't disturb me," replies he, without looking up; and, picking up the required book, molly commences a hasty retreat.

but just as she gains the door her grandfather's voice once more arrests her.

"wait," he says; "i want to ask you a question that—that has been on my mind for a considerable time."

to the commonest observer it would occur that from the break to the finish of this little sentence is one clumsy invention.

"yes?" says molly.

"have you a dress for this ball,—this senseless rout that is coming off?" says mr. amherst, without looking at her.

"yes, grandpapa." in a tone a degree harder.

"you are my granddaughter. i desire to see you dressed as such. is"—with an effort—"your gown a handsome one?"

"well, that greatly depends upon taste," returns molly, who, though angry, finds a grim amusement in watching the flounderings of this tactless old person. "if we are to believe that beauty unadorned is adorned the most, i may certainly flatter myself i shall be the best dressed woman in the room. but there may be some who will not call white muslin 'handsome.'"

"white muslin up to sixteen is very charming," mr. amherst says, in a slow tone of a connoisseur in such matters, "but not beyond. and you are, i think——"

"nineteen."

"quite so. then in your case i should condemn the muslin. you will permit me to give you a dress, eleanor, more in accordance with your age and position."

"thank you very much, grandpapa," says molly, with a little ominous gleam in her blue eyes. "you are too good. i am deeply sensible of all your kindness, but i really cannot see how my position has altered of late. as you have just discovered, i am now nineteen, and for so many years i have managed to look extremely well in white muslin."

as she finishes her modest speech she feels she has gone too far. she has been almost impertinent, considering his age and relationship to her; nay, more, she has been ungenerous.

her small taunt has gone home. mr. amherst rises from his chair; the dull red of old age comes painfully into his withered cheeks as he stands gazing at her, slight, erect, with her proud little head upheld so haughtily.

for a moment anger masters him; then it fades, and something as near remorse as his heart can hold replaces it.

molly, returning his glance with interest, knows he is annoyed. but she does not know that, standing as she now does, with uplifted chin and gleaming eyes, and just a slight in-drawing of her lips, she is the very image of the dead-and-gone eleanor, that, in spite of her irish father, her irish name, she is a living, breathing, defiant amherst.

in silence that troubles her she waits for the next word. it comes slowly, almost entreatingly.

"molly," says her grandfather, in a tone that trembles ever so little,—it is the first time he has ever called her by her pet name,—"molly, i shall take it as a great favor if you will accede to my request and accept—this."

as he finishes he holds out to her a check, regarding her earnestly the while.

the "molly" has done it. too generous even to hesitate, she takes the paper, and, going closer to him, lays her hand upon his shoulder.

"i have been rude, grandpapa,—i beg your pardon,—and i am very much obliged to you for this money."

so saying, she bends and presses her soft sweet lips to his cheek. he makes no effort to return the caress, but long after she leaves the room sits staring vaguely before him out of the dreary window on to the still more dreary landscape outside, thinking of vanished days and haunting actions that will not be laid, but carry with them their sure and keen revenge, in the knowledge that to the dead no ill can be undone.

molly, going back to the drawing-room, finds cecil there, serene as usual.

"well, and where is my book?" asks that innocent. "i thought you were never coming."

"cecil, why did you tell grandpapa to offer me a dress?" demands molly, abruptly.

"my dearest girl!——" exclaims cecil, and then has the grace to stop and blush, a little.

"you did. there is no use your denying it."

"you didn't refuse it? oh, molly, after all my trouble!"

"no,"—laughing, and unfolding her palm, where the paper lies crushed,—"but i was very near it. but that his manner was so kind, so marvelously gentle, for him, i should have done so. cecil, i couldn't help thinking that perhaps long ago, before the world hardened him, grandpapa was a nice young man."

"perhaps he was, my dear,—there is no knowing what any of us may come to,—though you must excuse me if i say i rather doubt it. well, and what did he say?"

"very little, indeed; and that little a failure. when going about it you might have given him a few lessons in his rôle. so bungling a performance as the leading up to it i never witnessed; and when he wound up by handing me a check ready prepared beside him on the desk i very nearly laughed."

"old goose! never mind; 'they laugh who win.' i have won."

"so you have."

"well, but look, molly, look. i want to see how far his unwonted 'gentleness' has carried him. i am dying of curiosity. i do hope he has not been shabby."

unfolding the paper, they find the check has been drawn for a hundred pounds.

"very good," says cecil, with a relieved sigh. "he is not such a bad old thing, when all is told."

"it is too much," says molly, aghast. "i can't take it, indeed. i would have thought twenty pounds a great deal, but a hundred pounds! i must take it back to him."

"are you mad," exclaims cecil, "to insult him? he thinks nothing of a hundred pounds. and to give back money,—that scarce commodity,—how could you bring yourself to do it?" in tones of the liveliest reproach. "be reasonable, dear, and let us see how we can spend it fast enough."

thus adjured, molly succumbs, and, sinking into a chair, is soon deep in the unfathomable mysteries of silks and satins, tulle and flowers.

"and, cecil, i should like to buy letitia a silk dress like that one of yours up-stairs i admire so much."

"the navy blue?"

"no, the olive-green; it would just suit her. she has a lovely complexion, clear and tinted, like your own."

"thank you, dear. it is to be regretted you are of the weaker sex. so delicately veiled a compliment would not have disgraced a chesterfield."

"was it too glaring? well, i will do away with it. i was thinking entirely of letty. i was comparing her skin very favorably with yours. that reminds me i must write home to-day. i hope john won't be offended with me about this money. though, after all, there can't be much harm in accepting a present from one's grandfather."

"i should think not, indeed. i only wish i had a grandfather, and wouldn't i utilize him! but i am an unfortunate,—alone in the world."

even as she speaks, the door in the next drawing-room opens, and through the folding-doors, which stand apart, she sees her husband enter, and make his way to a davenport.

"that destroys your argument," says molly, with a low laugh, as she runs away to her own room to write her letters.

for a few minutes cecil sits silently enjoying a distant view of her husband's back. but she is far too much of a coquette to let him long remain in ignorance of her near proximity. going softly up to him, and leaning lightly over his shoulder, she says, in a half-whisper, "what are you doing?"

he starts a little, not having expected to see so fair an apparition, and lays one of his hands over hers as it rests upon his shoulder.

"is it you?" he says. "i did not hear you coming."

"no? that was because i was farthest from your thoughts. you are writing? to whom?"

"my tailor, for one. it is a sad but certain fact that, sooner or later, one's tailor must be paid."

"so must one's modiste." with a sigh. "it is that sort of person who spoils one's life."

"is your life spoiled?"

"oh, yes, in many ways."

"poor little soul!" says he, with a half laugh, tightening his fingers over hers. "is your dressmaker hardhearted?"

"don't get me to begin on that subject, or i shall never leave off. the wrongs i have suffered at that woman's hands! but then why talk of what cannot be helped?"

"perhaps it may. can i do nothing for you?"

"i am afraid not." moving a little away from him. "and yet, perhaps, if you choose, you might. you are writing; i wish"—throwing down her eyes, as though confused (which she isn't), and assuming her most guileless air—"you would write something for me."

"what a simple request! of course i will—anything."

"really? you promise?"

"faithfully."

"it is not, perhaps, quite so simple a request as it appears. i want you, in fact, to—write me—a check!"

sir penthony laughs, and covers the white and heavily-jeweled little hand that glitters before him on the table once more with his own.

"for how much?" he asks.

"not much,—only fifty pounds. i want to buy something particular for this ball: and"—glancing at him—"being a lone woman, without a protector, i dread going too heavily into debt."

"good child," says sir penthony. "you shall have your check." drawing the book toward him as it lies before him on the davenport, he fills up a check and hands it to her.

"now, what will you give me for it?" asks he, holding the edge near him as her fingers close upon the other end.

"what have i to give? have i not just acknowledged myself insolvent? i am as poor as a church mouse."

"you disparage yourself. i think you as rich as crœsus. will you—give me a kiss?" whispers her husband, softly.

there is a decided pause. dropping the check and coloring deeply, cecil moves back a step or two. she betrays a little indignation in her glance,—a very little, but quite perceptible. stafford sees it.

"i beg your pardon," he says, hastily, an expression of mingled pain and shame crossing his face. "i was wrong, of course. i will not buy your kisses. here, take this bit of paper, and—forgive me."

he closes her somewhat reluctant fingers over the check. she is still blushing, and has her eyes fixed on the ground, but her faint anger has disappeared. then some thought—evidently a merry one—occurs to her; the corners of her mouth widen, and finally she breaks into a musical laugh.

"thank you—very much," she says. "you are very good. it is something to have a husband, after all. and—if you would really care for it—i—don't mind letting you have one——oh! here is somebody coming."

"there always is somebody coming when least wanted," exclaims sir penthony, wrathfully, pushing back his chair with much suppressed ire, as the door opens to admit mr. potts.

"'i hope i don't intrude,'" says potts, putting his comfortable face and rosy head round the door; "but i've got an idea, and i must divulge it or burst. you wouldn't like me to burst, would you?" this to lady stafford, pathetically.

"i would not,—here," replies she, with decision.

"for fear you might, i shall take my departure," says sir penthony, who has not yet quite recovered either his disappointment or his temper, walking through the conservatory into the grounds beyond.

"i really wish, plantagenet," says lady stafford, turning upon the bewildered potts with most unaccountable severity, "you could manage to employ your time in some useful way. the dreadful manner in which you spend your days, wandering round the house without aim or reason, causes me absolute regret. do give yourself the habit of reading or—or doing something to improve your mind, whenever you have a spare moment."

so saying, she sweeps past him out of the room, without even making an inquiry about that priceless idea, leaving poor potts rooted to the ground, striving wildly, but vainly, to convict himself of some unpardonable offense.