of a subscription in the family."
He was wearing the gown now, and drew it about him with another
laugh. "Hence the majestic figure I cut before you at this moment."

"But we all subscribed, sir. You shall not slight my poor offering--
all made up as it was of dairy-pence."

"Miss Molly, all my life is a patchwork made up of kind deeds and
kind thoughts from one or other of you. You do not believe--"

"Nay, you love us all, John. I know that well enough."

For some reason a silence fell between them. Molly broke it with a
laugh, which nevertheless trembled a little. "Then your gown should
be a patchwork, too?"

"Why to be sure it is," he answered gravely; "and I wish the world
could see it so, quartered out upon me like a herald's coat, and each
quartering assigned--that is Mr. Wesley's, and that your mother's,
and that, again, your brother John's--"

"And the sleeve Miss Molly's: I will be content with a sleeve.
Only it must have the armorial bearings proper to a fourth daughter,
with my simple motto--'Butter and New-laid Eggs.'"

The sound of their merriment reached Mrs. Wesley through an open
window, and in the dim kitchen Mrs. Wesley smiled to herself.

"But," objected he, "the sleeve will not do. I do not wear my heart
upon my sleeve, Molly." She turned her head abruptly. For the first
time in his life he had dared to call her Molly, and was trembling at
his boldness. At first he took the movement for a prompt rebuke:
then, deciding that she had not heard, he was at once relieved and
disappointed.

But be sure she had heard. And she was not angry: only--this was not
the old Johnny Whitelamb, but another man in speech and accent, and
she felt more than a little afraid of him.

"Tell me more of Hetty," she commanded, and resting one hand on her
staff pointed to the south-west, where, over the coping of the wall,
out of a pure green chasm infinitely deep between reddened clouds of
sunset, the evening star looked down.

He knew the meaning of the sudden gesture. Had not Hetty ever been
her Star?

"She is beautiful as ever. You never saw so sad a face: the sadder
because it is never morose."

"I believe, John, you loved her best of us all."

"I worshipped her. To be her servant, or her dog, would have been
enough for me. I never dared to think of her as--as--"

--"As you thought, for example, of her crippled sister, whom you
protected."

"Molly!" He drew back. "Ah, if I dared--if I