Molly.

"From Roy," she said. "I think"—and there was a dubious pause—"I think I may permit you to read this to yourself, child. Doubtless your mamma has already seen it."

Molly fled to the window-seat, curled herself up there, and plunged into the delights of Roy's epistle, seeing and hearing nothing else. Mrs. Fairbank's face of growing concern failed to reach her perceptions, and a murmured consultation which took place might have gone on in China for all the impression that it made upon Molly. Roy's prim round handwriting spoke to her as follows:—

There was no ending to the letter, and Molly read it through a second time. Then she hugged and kissed it tenderly, and at length carried it across to the others.

"Roy has forgot to sign his name," she said. "I suppose he went out to see the sights, and did not remember. My mamma thinks he has caught a cold."

"Roy is far from well, my dear," Mrs. Fairbank observed solemnly. "He was taken ill with a most unexpected disorder while writing to you, and could not conclude. It is truly unfortunate."

"Roy—ill!"

"'Tis not good manners to repeat other people's words, Molly. Yes; Roy has the small-pox. Doubtless he took it into his constitution before ever he left England. He must have caught the infection from one of his school-fellows."

Polly wound her kind arms round the image of childish woe.

"But numbers and numbers of people have the small-pox, Molly," she said. "'Tis truly but a few who altogether escape, you know. And many get over the complaint. Doubtless Roy will soon be well again—in a few weeks." This was lame comfort, but what better could Polly say, in those days of the awful unchecked scourge.

"Will his face be all marked?" sadly asked Molly, thinking of the innumerable seamed and disfigured faces which she knew. "Will he become like to Mr. Bryce?"

"Oh, I hope not, indeed. All who have it are not scarred. Captain Ivor is not, yet he has had it." Polly's lips trembled, and she set them firmly. "Think, Molly, is not Captain Ivor a dear brave man? He has taken Roy into another house, and he will not let your father or mother go near to Roy, or anyone that has not had the disorder. They never have, as you know. And they were never inoculated, so they might catch it. And he is nursing Roy himself. The people in the hotel would not keep Roy, so soon as they knew that he had the small-pox, but a room has been found, and Captain Ivor is there with him. And they hope it will not be a severe attack. So in a little while I do think we shall hear that he is better."

Molly was hard to comfort, and what wonder? Polly would have liked to keep the ill news from her for some days, till perhaps better accounts should arrive, but Mrs. Fairbank viewed the matter differently. "Worse news might come, instead of better," she said.

No doubt that was true. Still, Molly might have been spared many weary days of suspense. All her spirit went out of her, and she seemed to care for nothing, except clinging to Polly and being told over and over again that Roy would probably soon be well. Letters then were not, as now, an everyday affair. Posts were slow and uncertain, and postage was expensive, and people thought twice before putting pen to paper. Roy's father promised to write again speedily, yet he waited till there should be something definite to tell.

So day passed after day, and no further tidings arrived. The suspense was almost as hard for Polly as for Molly; harder, perhaps, in some respects, only as Ivor had had the disease, and had nursed a friend through it two years earlier without being affected, he might be counted personally safe. Nursing in those days was not a science; trained nurses were unknown; and Roy could hardly have been in better hands than those of the young Grenadier officer. But Polly knew that his stay in Paris was likely to be much lengthened. Weeks might pass before Roy would be well enough to travel, and before it would be safe for either of them to go freely among other people. Ideas as to the nature and extent of infection were vague, but small-pox was the terror of everybody, and while there was little system in avoidance of the danger, there was any amount of scare.

In all probability Denham would spend the whole of his leave in attendance upon the boy, and when he returned he would have no time to spare for Bath. Polly would have no chance of showing off her tall Grenadier among friends and acquaintances. At present her fears extended no further.

Meanwhile public events marched on with strides, and that month of May, 1803, was astir with events. The maintenance of peace between England and France became daily more and more precarious. The feverish ambition of Napoleon could know no rest, so long as he was fearlessly confronted by a single nation in Europe.

One chief bone of contention was Malta. Napoleon had set his heart upon getting Malta for himself, and England was equally bent on keeping him out of Malta. By the treaty of the preceding year, England had undertaken to evacuate the island, and to restore it to the knights of St. John. But the withdrawal of English troops had been of necessity