y in the game as this," thinks she, "I don't fancy I shall have an
altogether festive time of it."

"What shall it be?" she asks, aloud.

"Nothing Italian, at all events," says Mr. Amherst (all Marcia's
endeavors are in that language); "I like something I can understand,
and I hate your runs and trills."

"I will sing you my own song," says Molly, gayly, and gives them "Molly
Bawn" deliciously.

"How pretty that is!" says Lady Stafford; "and so wild,--quite Irish!
But your name, after all, is Eleanor, is it not?"

"There is, I believe, a tradition in the family to that effect," says
Molly, smiling, "but it is used up, and no one now pays to it the least
attention. I myself much prefer Molly. I am always called Molly Bawn at
home."

Her voice lingers on the word "home." In an instant, amidst all the
luxuries and charms of this beautiful drawing-room at Herst, her mind
goes back to the old, homely, beloved sanctum at Brooklyn, where she
sees John, and Letty, and all the happy, merry, good-hearted children,
harmoniously mixed up together.

"It is a pity," says Mr. Amherst, purposely, seeing an opening for one
of his cheerful remarks, "that everything about Ireland should be so
wretchedly low."

"It _is_ swampy," replies Miss Molly, promptly.

At this dangerous moment the door is thrown wide open, and a servant
announces "Mr. Potts."

The effect is electric. Everybody looks up, and pleased, and glad;
while the owner of this euphonious name comes forward, and, having
shaken hands with Marcia, turns to old Amherst.

"How d'ye do, sir?" he says, heartily. "I hope you are better."

"Do you?" says Mr. Amherst, unamiably, feeling still a keen regret that
the neat retort intended for Molly must wait another occasion. "I would
believe you if I could, but it isn't in human nature. Yes, I am better,
thank you; much better. I dare say with care I shall last this winter,
and probably the next, and perhaps outlive a good many of you." He
chuckles odiously as he winds up this pleasing speech.

Mr. Potts, rather taken aback, mutters something inaudible, and turns
to Lady Stafford, who receives him warmly.

He is a young man of about twenty-four (though he might, in appearance,
be any age from that to forty-four), and is short rather than tall. His
eyes are gray, small, and bright, and full of fun, bespeaking
imperturbable good humor.

His hair is red. It is hair that admits of no compromise; it is neither
auburn, golde