ing lies open
to catch it.'--SIR WALTER SCOTT.

While Audrey was talking to her old friend in the jasmine-covered porch
of Vineyard Cottage, Cyril Blake was sitting on a stile in one of the
Brail lanes, trying to solve a difficult problem.

A domestic matter had come under his notice that very afternoon--a very
ordinary occurrence, if he had only known it--and had caused him much
vexation. Not being more clear-sighted than other young men of his age,
it is extremely doubtful whether he would have noticed it at all but for
a few words spoken by Miss Ross.

A week or two ago he had observed casually to her, as they were standing
together on the cricket-field, that he thought Mollie was growing very
fast.

'I suppose she is strong,' he added doubtfully; 'but she has certainly
seemed very tired lately'--this reflection being forced upon him by a
remark of Kester's, 'that Mollie had such a lot of headaches now.'

'I am afraid Mollie is very often tired,' returned Audrey rather
gravely.

Now, there was nothing in this simple remark to arrest Cyril's
attention; but somehow Audrey's tone implied a good deal, and, though no
further word passed between them on the subject, Cyril was left with an
uncomfortable impression, though it was too vague and intangible to be
understood by him.

But on this afternoon in question he was rummaging among his possessions
for some studs he had mislaid, and, thinking Mollie would help him in
the search, he went in quest of her. He found her in the close little
kitchen, ironing a pile of handkerchiefs and starched things. The place
felt like an oven that hot summer's afternoon, and poor Mollie's face
was sadly flushed; she looked worried and overheated, and it was then
that Audrey's words flashed on him with a sort of electrical
illumination--'I am afraid Mollie is very often tired.'

'Did you want me, Cyril?' asked Mollie, a little wearily, as she tested
another iron and then put it down again.

'Yes--no, it does not matter,' rather absently. 'Mollie, is there no one
else who can do that work? This place is like a brick-kiln.'

'Well, there is only Biddy, you know, and she does get up the things so
badly. You remember how you grumbled about your handkerchiefs--and no
wonder, for they looked as though they were rough-dried--and so mamma
said I had better do them for the future, because I could iron so
nicely;' and Mollie gave a look of pride at the snowy pile beside her.

But