to climb and lick it until
Lady Stafford returns. So busy has she been, it seems to her as though
only a minute has elapsed since her departure.

"This does look cozy," Cecil says, easily sinking into a
lounging-chair. "Now, if those tiresome men had not gone shooting we
should not be able to cuddle into our fire as we are doing at present.
After all, it is a positive relief to get them out of the
way,--sometimes."

"You don't seem very hearty about that sentiment."

"I am, for all that. With a good novel I would now be utterly content
for an hour or two. By the bye, I left my book on the library table. If
you were good-natured, Molly, I know what you would do."

"So do I: I would get it for you. Well, taking into consideration all
things, your age and growing infirmities among them, I will accept your
hint." And, rising, she goes in search of the missing volume.

Opening the library door with a little bang and a good deal of reckless
unconsciousness, she finds herself in Mr. Amherst's presence.

"Oh!" cries she, with a surprised start. "I beg your pardon, grandpapa.
If"--pausing on the threshold--"I had known you were here, I would not
have disturbed you."

"You don't disturb me," replies he, without looking up; and, picking up
the required book, Molly commences a hasty retreat.

But just as she gains the door her grandfather's voice once more
arrests her.

"Wait," he says; "I want to ask you a question that--that has been on
my mind for a considerable time."

To the commonest observer it would occur that from the break to the
finish of this little sentence is one clumsy invention.

"Yes?" says Molly.

"Have you a dress for this ball,--this senseless rout that is coming
off?" says Mr. Amherst, without looking at her.

"Yes, grandpapa." In a tone a degree harder.

"You are my granddaughter. I desire to see you dressed as such.
Is"--with an effort--"your gown a handsome one?"

"Well, that greatly depends upon taste," returns Molly, who, though
angry, finds a grim amusement in watching the flounderings of this
tactless old person. "If we are to believe that beauty unadorned is
adorned the most, I may certainly flatter myself I shall be the best
dressed woman in the room. But there _may_ be some who will not
call white muslin 'handsome.'"

"White muslin up to sixteen is very charming," Mr. Amherst says, in a
slow tone of a connoisseur in such matters, "but not beyond. And you
are, I think----"

"Nin