eteen."

"Quite so. Then in your case I should condemn the muslin. You will
permit me to give you a dress, Eleanor, more in accordance with your
age and position."

"Thank you very much, grandpapa," says Molly, with a little ominous
gleam in her blue eyes. "You are too good. I am deeply sensible of all
your kindness, but I really cannot see how my position has altered of
late. As you have just discovered, I am now nineteen, and for so many
years I have managed to look extremely well in white muslin."

As she finishes her modest speech she feels she has gone too far. She
has been almost impertinent, considering his age and relationship to
her; nay, more, she has been ungenerous.

Her small taunt has gone home. Mr. Amherst rises from his chair; the
dull red of old age comes painfully into his withered cheeks as he
stands gazing at her, slight, erect, with her proud little head upheld
so haughtily.

For a moment anger masters him; then it fades, and something as near
remorse as his heart can hold replaces it.

Molly, returning his glance with interest, knows he is annoyed. But she
does not know that, standing as she now does, with uplifted chin and
gleaming eyes, and just a slight in-drawing of her lips, she is the
very image of the dead-and-gone Eleanor, that, in spite of her Irish
father, her Irish name, she is a living, breathing, defiant Amherst.

In silence that troubles her she waits for the next word. It comes
slowly, almost entreatingly.

"Molly," says her grandfather, in a tone that trembles ever so
little,--it is the first time he has ever called her by her pet
name,--"Molly, I shall take it as a great favor if you will accede to
my request and accept--this."

As he finishes he holds out to her a check, regarding her earnestly the
while.

The "Molly" has done it. Too generous even to hesitate, she takes the
paper, and, going closer to him, lays her hand upon his shoulder.

"I have been rude, grandpapa,--I beg your pardon,--and I am very much
obliged to you for this money."

So saying, she bends and presses her soft sweet lips to his cheek. He
makes no effort to return the caress, but long after she leaves the
room sits staring vaguely before him out of the dreary window on to the
still more dreary landscape outside, thinking of vanished days and
haunting actions that will not be laid, but carry with them their sure
and keen revenge, in the knowledge that to the dead no ill can be
undone.

Molly,