A little later on, when (regardless of spiders and other innumerable creeping things) they are seated in the arbour, Hugh having begged earnestly for a few minutes' quiet talk before joining the others, Molly suddenly looks up.
"Poor fellow! you do indeed look as if you need to be taken care of. Is your poor arm really getting stronger now?" and she gently strokes the right arm, which he still wears in a sling.
"O, that will soon be all right," he says, capturing the little hand and holding it fast. "It was the knock on the head which nearly did for me. Look here, Molly!" and lifting a lock of hair which falls a little over one side of his forehead, he shows her a wound which extends pretty far back. Not an ugly-looking scar, but a deep and dangerous cut at the time.
"Yes," he says, "I did not know much after getting that, Molly; but I should have known still less if it had not been for you."
"For me?" says the girl looking up inquiringly.
"Yes, for you, dear. Here, help me to get into my breast-pocket, Molly I have something to show you."
With a little struggling Hugh's pocket-book is at length extracted from his pocket, and after some fumbling among its contents he presently produces a little flat silver box of oriental-looking workmanship, which looks a good deal dented and a little bent.
He gives it into Molly's hands.
"Open it," he says, and the girl, wondering a little, does so.
A faded white rose lies within it, a faint, sweet fragrance clinging to it still.