ooped to teach and befriend him! No wonder Kester
prayed 'God bless him!' every night in his brief boyish prayers; that he
grew to track his footsteps much as Booty did, and to read him--as
Audrey failed to do--by the light of his honest, youthful love.

For Kester's hero was Kester's friend; and in time friends grow to
understand each other.

CHAPTER XIX

YELLOW STOCKINGS ON THE TAPIS

'We school our manners, act our parts,
But He who sees us through and through
Knows that the bent of both our hearts
Was to be gentle, tranquil, true.'

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Audrey had not forgotten Mollie all this time. She kept her promise, and
wrote to her frequently; and she had long letters from her in return.
Mollie's girlish effusions were very innocent and loving. One day
Michael asked to read one of them. He smiled as he handed it back.

'She is a dear little girl!' he said heartily; 'I do not wonder that you
are so fond of her. She is only an undeveloped child now, but there is
plenty of good raw material. Mollie will make a fine large-hearted woman
one day--like someone else I know,' he finished to himself. 'If I do not
mistake, Mollie is cut after Audrey's pattern.'

Now and then Mrs. Blake wrote also. Her letters were airy and
picturesque, like her talk. Audrey would read them aloud to her mother
and Michael.

'I really feel as though our Richmond dreams had come true,' she wrote
once--'as though our favourite castle in the air were built. "Not
really, mother? you don't think this beautiful house and garden belong
to us really?" asks Mollie, in her stupid way. You know what a literal
little soul she is. "Oh, go away, Mollie!" I exclaim quite crossly. "How
can I help it if you have no imagination?" For all I know, the place is
ours: no one interferes with us; we come and go as we like; the birds
sing to us; the flowers bloom for our pleasure. Sometimes we sit by the
lake, or Mollie paddles me to Deep-water Chine, or we read our history
on that delicious circular seat overlooking the terraces. Then the
silence is invaded: a neat-handed Phyllis--isn't that poetically
expressed?--comes up with a message from that good Mrs. Draper: "Where
would Mrs. Blake and Miss Mollie have their tea?" Oh, you dear,
thoughtful creature, as though I do not know who has prompted Mrs.
Draper! Of course Mollie cries: "The garden, mamma!" and "The garden so
be it," say I. And pres