"Do you think I am going to be entertained by a description of your baby-house?" he said, in mock wrath. "Tell Mollie she ought to be grown up by this time." But when he was left alone, he said to himself, "Now, why in the world should they have hit on that name Kitlands? Don't I recollect that sunny evening when I walked up the terrace, and the red light streamed from the west room!" He sighed, then roused himself. "Bless their dear, innocent hearts. Now if only their mother could have heard all that!"
Mollie was perfectly ravished with the description of the Red House, and as soon as Waveney paused to take breath, she said, "Why, it is almost as nice as Kitlands, only there is no park and no deer. But I wish I had thought of a peacock." Then she put her head on one side and reflected deeply. "There is the Italian garden, you know, Wave, a sundial would do very nicely there, and we could choose an inscription." But Waveney gave her a little push. "Don't be such a baby, Mollie. We are getting too old for Kitlands. We must put our play-house away with the dear old dolls. But, seriously, is it not perfectly delicious to think we shall be together every Sunday?"
"Yes, that will be nice, of course. But is it really settled, Wave?" and Mollie's voice was full of melancholy.
"I think so, dear; but, of course, I must talk to father. Darling, promise me that you will try and make the best of it. The week will pass so quickly, and then, when Sunday comes, we shall be together. I daresay I shall be with you by half-past three, just after father and Noel have started for their afternoon walk."
"I shall come to the station and meet you," interrupted Mollie.
"Will you? How nice that will be! And we shall have a cosy hour on Grumps, and you shall tell me all your worries—every one of them; and I will tell mine. Then, when father comes in, you and Noel shall get tea ready, and dad and I will have a little talk. And after tea we will sing all our favourite hymns, and then we will go to St. Michael's together, and I will have my old place by father."
"Yes; and then we will all go to the station with you. But oh, Wave, how I shall hate Monday mornings! I shall never feel cheerful until Wednesday is over;" but Waveney would not hear of this—she preached quite a little homily on the duty of cultivating cheerfulness; but her eloquence died a natural death when she saw Mollie nod, and ten minutes later they were both asleep.
It was a free morning with Mr. Ward, and he was not at all surprised when Waveney invited him to take a prowl.
"Won't Mollie prowl, too?" he asked, as he noticed her wistful expression. But Waveney shook her head.
"Mollie was an idle girl yesterday," she remarked, severely; "she must stay in and finish her menu card. There, you shall have the Black Prince's flowers to console you;" and Waveney placed them on the painting-table. "'Sweets to the sweet'—they are as much yours as mine, Mollie." Then Mollie blushed a little guiltily. More than once the thought had passed through her mind—how nice it would be if she had a Monsieur Blackie to bring her hot-house flowers. For Mollie was very human, and certainly