mean to Molly.

Mary Keene and her brother John, commonly known as "Polly" and "Jack," were not really cousins to Roy and Molly, though treated as such by the family. Their widowed grandmother, Mrs. Keene, had, some fourteen years earlier, married a second time—rather late in life—and her new husband, Mr. Fairbank, had one daughter, Harriette, then just married to Captain Baron. Two or three years later her own grandchildren, Jack and Polly, were left orphans, and were taken in permanently by Mr. and Mrs. Fairbank. When Mr. Fairbank died, some four or five years before this date, his twice-widowed wife took up her abode, with her grandchildren, in Bath, then a fashionable place of residence for "the quality." Jack, who was a year and more older than Polly had, at the beginning of this story, just been gazetted to a regiment of the line, which was quartered in Bath.

Molly was very fond of Polly, and she had also a warm admiration for Jack; but no one in the world could be to her like her own twin-brother, Roy; and Roy's indifference to this first serious separation had cut her to the quick. When Polly entered the schoolroom, she at first thought that Molly had fled; but she detected a little heap in the farthest and darkest corner, and soon she heard the sound of a smothered sob, followed quickly by a second and a third.

Polly waited a moment, to draw off her gloves, and then she made her way to the corner, sat down on the ground, and put a pair of gentle arms round the child.

"O fie, little Molly, fie! This won't do at all, you know. Crying to have to go home with me! That is altogether wrong and silly. And so unkind too. It makes me feel half inclined to cry also, because I wanted to have dear little Molly, and now I know that Molly does not care to come. Molly, you dear little goose, don't you know that people can't be always and for ever together the whole of their lives? It isn't the way of the world, dear; and you and I can't alter the world to please ourselves. Roy is glad to go to Paris, of course; and so would you be, and so should I be, in his place. But everybody can't go to Paris at the same time. Fie, fie, little Molly, to mind so much what isn't worth making your eyes red about! Fie, dear! Wake up, and don't be doleful. Always laugh, if you can; because if you are unhappy, it makes other people unhappy as well. And that is such a pity. You don't wish to set me off crying too, do you?"

The elder girl's eyes had a suspicious look in them of tears not far off, as she bent over the child.

"Other people have troubles, as well as you, little Moll. Try to believe that, and try to be brave. We don't all—I mean, they don't all talk about their troubles always. It is of no use. Things have to be borne, and crying does no good. So stop the tears, Molly, and hold up your head, and think how nice it will be to see my grandmother and Jack, and the Bath Pump-room, and all the fine ladies and gentlemen walking about in their smart clothes."

A squeeze of Molly's arms came in reply.

"There will be Admiral and Mrs. Peirce to see, for the Admiral is now at home, and they are in Bath—and little Will Peirce, who soon is to be a middy in His Majesty's Navy. And Jack shall show himself to you in his new scarlet coat. You would not think how well he looks in it. I am proud of him, and so must you be; for Jack is everything in the world to me. No, not quite everything, but a great deal, as Roy is to you. Yet, I do not expect always to keep Jack by my side. He will have to go some day, and he will have to fight for old England. And when that day comes, I shall bid him farewell with a smile; for I would not be a drag upon him, nor wish to hold him back. And Roy will go also; and you will bear it bravely, little Moll. I am sure you will—like a soldier's daughter."

The soft caressing voice, the cool rose-leaf cheek against her own, the lovely dark eyes smiling upon her, all comforted poor Molly's sore heart; and she clung to Polly, and cried away more than half her pain.

"Don't tell Roy," she petitioned presently. "He doesn't mind, and he must not think that I do."

"Why not? That is naughty pride, Molly. It is always the women who care, not the men." Polly held up her head, and a far-away look crept into the soft eyes. "Dear, you must expect it to be so. Men have so much to do and to think about. But we have time to grieve, when they go away to fight; and they are always so glad to go."

"Are they?" a deep and quiet voice asked, close to her side, and Polly started strangely. For a moment her tiny shell-pink ears became crimson, and then she looked up, smiling.

"How do you do, Captain Ivor?"

Denham Ivor in his uniform—large-skirted military coat, black gaiters, white breeches, pig-tail, and gold-laced cocked hat in hand—looked even taller than out of it, and at all times he was wont to overtop the average man. He had a fine face, well browned, with regular features and dark eyes, ordinarily calm, and he bore his head in a stately fashion, while his manners were marked by a grave courtesy, which might seem strange beside modern freedom. As he looked down upon Polly, a subdued glow awoke in those earnest eyes.

Polly had not sprung up. She was still kneeling on the floor beside Molly, and her slim figure in its white frock looked very child-like. The flush had died as fast as it had arisen. Molly was clinging to her, with hidden face, and for an instant the fresh voice failed to reach the younger girl's understanding. Then Molly became aware of another spectator, and quitting her hold, she fled from the room. Polly rose gracefully.

"We will now go to the drawing-room," she suggested.

"Nay, wait a moment, I entreat. One instant"—and the bronzed face had grown positively pale. "I beseech of you to listen to me. For indeed, I have somewhat to say which I can no longer resolve to keep to myself. No, not even for one more day. Somewhat that you alone can answer, thereby making me the most happy or the most miserable of men."

A tiny gleam came to Polly's downcast eyes.

"If you have aught that is weighty to say, it may be that I could but refer you to my grandmother," she suggested demurely.

"But perhaps you can divine what that weighty thing is. And what if already I have written to your grandmother; and if she has consented to my suit?"

Young ladies did not give themselves away too cheaply in those days. Polly was barely eighteen; but, for all that, she had a very dainty air of dignity. And if, during past weeks, she had gone through some troublous hours, recognising how much she cared for Captain Ivor, and wondering, despite his marked attentions, whether he seriously cared for her, she was not going to admit as much in any haste to the individual in question. So she dropped an elegant little curtsey, and asked, with the most innocent air imaginable—

"Then, pray, sir, what may be your will?"

"Sweet Polly, may I speak?"

A solid square stool—well adapted for present purposes—was close at hand, and promptly down upon this with both knees went the tall grenadier, in the most approved fashion of his day. Sweet Polly could not long stand out against his earnest pleading. So, with a show of coy reserve, she gradually yielded, intimating that she did like him just a little; that some day or other she thought she could be his wife; that meantime she would somehow manage to keep him in her memory.

"And next week you are away to Paris!" she said, perhaps secretly wondering why he did not prefer to spend his leave in Bath. "For a whole long fortnight!"

"I could wish that I were not going. But all is arranged and the Colonel desires it. I must not fail him now at the last. If I can see my way to return at the end of a se'night, I will assuredly do so. If not—I shall still have a fortnight after my return. I shall know what to do with that time, sweetheart."

It is to be feared that Polly found small leisure