Mollie breathed a sigh of relief. Her words had evidently been misunderstood—or had he understood and come to her help? She wished he would take off those glasses!
"Catch her!" Dick was saying indignantly, "Aunt Mary is a jolly good old sport! You don't know her half as well as I do if that is what you think."
[Illustration: THERE THEY WERE—OH, HOW MOLLIE LONGED TO KEEP THEM!]
"Don't I?" said Major Campbell, turning to look at Aunt Mary, who was beginning to show signs of embarrassment under so much scrutiny. He took off his eye-glasses, but immediately replaced them by a pair of large round tortoise-shell spectacles through which he gazed at her solemnly.
"What are you doing, Hugh? Take off those absurd things this moment,"
Aunt Mary commanded as the children laughed.
"I am looking at you through stronger glasses," he answered. "I thought perhaps I wasn't seeing you properly, but the better I see the prettier you look."
"My hat!" Dick exclaimed, "look at Aunt Mary blushing. She's the colour of a ripe red currant. I think it's time we did a bunk. Come on, you kids!"
Late that evening Mollie sat at the open window again, this time to watch for the boys, who had set out for a belated round of golf. The rain had ceased and the air was fresh and sweet, but the lingering twilight was darkened by clouds and the garden was veiled in a ghostly white mist. Mollie had been listening to talk of times old and new, and now Grannie had settled down to her nightly game of patience, Major Campbell was seated in a deep and roomy arm-chair, and Aunt Mary had gone to the piano.
"Play the old tunes you played me to sleep with," Mollie begged. "I think I like old tunes best of all."
"So do I, Mollie," said Major Campbell. "Do you remember Prue's old musical-box, Mary? It is still in existence. Prue always turns it out on the dear old pater's birthday and has a sort of memorial service—I'm glad he didn't live to see the war. He was such a softhearted, confiding old chap, and never could be induced to see the black spots in poor human nature—he was always ready with an excuse for any lapse from virtue. He never could screw himself up to the pitch of giving his children a thorough good rowing, though I am sure we often needed one badly enough."