"You won't think anything of me when that lame girl comes. I know what it will be; you'll be dancing attendance upon her all day long, and I shall be left in the lurch!"
"Nonsense, Muriel! You know better! Of course, I shall be as nice and kind to poor Molly as I possibly can, because I like her, and because she will be very sad at having lost her father!"
"What a horrid man he must have been!" Muriel cried, with a gesture of disgust.
"Molly loved him," Marigold answered gently, "and I expect she is in great trouble now he is gone. You'll be kind to her, won't you, Muriel?" coaxingly.
Muriel made no reply for a moment, then she burst out—
"Oh, Marigold, I am a bad, wicked girl! I am, really! I cannot help feeling jealous of this Molly Jenkins. I'm so afraid you'll like her better than you like me! I know it's horrid of me to mind, but you are the first real friend I ever had, and I don't want anyone to come between us."
Marigold looked greatly surprised, for she was never in the least jealous herself, and could not realise how much anyone might suffer from such a failing.
"Molly won't come between us," she said reassuringly. "Why, she's years older than we are!"
"I know. I suppose you think me very selfish, don't you?"
"I think when you see Molly you'll like her yourself," Marigold replied, ignoring her companion's question. And such proved to be the case, for Molly accepted the invitation to come to Boscombe, and a few days later arrived, pale and tired, but with a look of patient resignation on her countenance that made Muriel feel ashamed of the jealous thoughts she had harboured against her.