d he left all he possessed absolutely to his
widow, who was not prepared to find how very little that all had become.
Mrs. Carteret took up the burden of the acres, dairy, gardens, and
stable, with a sense of sanctified duty none the less heroic in
sensation because she was doing all these things for her own profit. Her
neighbours held her in proportionate respect; and, as she had a fine
person, pleasant manners, and good connections, she kept, without the
aid of wealth, a comfortable corner in the society of the county.

It was not long after Colonel Carteret's death, and some thirteen years
before the death of Sir David Bright, that the immediate neighbourhood
became gradually conscious of the fact that Mrs. Carteret had adopted a
little niece, the child of a soldier brother who had died in India. This
child, from the first, made as little effect on her surroundings as it
was possible for a child to do. Molly Dexter was small, thin, and
sallow; her dark hair did not curl; and her grey eyes had a curious look
that is not common, yet not very rare, in childhood. It is the look of
one who waits for other circumstances and other people than those now
present. I know nothing so discouraging in a child friend--or rather in
a child acquaintance, for friendship is warned off by such eyes--as this
particular look. Mrs. Carteret took her niece cheerfully in hand,
commended the quiet of her ways, and gave credit to herself and open
windows for a perceptible increase in the covering of flesh on the
little bones, and a certain promise of firmness in the calves of the
small legs. As to the rest: "Of course it was difficult at first," she
said, "but now Molly is perfectly at home with me. Nurses never do
understand children, and Mary used to excite her until she had fits of
passion. But that is all past. She is quite a healthy and normal child
now."

Molly was growing healthy, but whether she was normal or not is another
point. It does not tend to make a child normal to change everything in
life at the age of seven. Not one person, hardly one thing was the same
to Molly since her father's death. The language of her _ayah_ had until
then been more familiar to her than any other language. The ayah's
thoughts had been her thoughts. The East had had in charge the first
years of Molly's dawning intelligence, and there seemed impressed, even
on her tiny figure, something that told of patience, scorn, and reserve.
And yet Mrs. Carteret wa