Molly stood, squeezing her hands together, wondering if the slow moments would ever pass. Mrs. Fairbank serenely knitted, stopped to count, and knitted again.
"I met Mrs. Peirce and Will in Milsom Street after breakfast," she observed. "Mrs. Peirce informed me that the Admiral had a letter yestere'en from his nephew, Mr. Albert Peirce."
Mrs. Fairbank's eyes wandered round the room in quest of something else to remark upon.
"My dear Polly, you must surely have forgot! That piece of knitting which was to have been done to-day——"
"I'll set to work upon it, ma'am. It won't take me but a very short time. O Jack!"—and a note of relief could be heard.
"Jack!" gasped Molly, under her breath.
"My dear Jack!" and Mrs. Fairbank suspended her knitting to glance up in pleased surprise.
The young man who walked in—he was hardly more than a boy in years—bore small resemblance to Polly, though he was her brother. He was of squarer build, slightly under medium height, and muscular in make; his features were irregular, and the eyes were light blue instead of brown. Beyond those good-humoured blue eyes and a fresh complexion, Jack Keene had no pretensions to good looks; but many people, beside his grandmother, counted him a very pleasant young fellow. Mrs. Fairbank, after the manner of old ladies, simply doted on her grandson. In her view he could almost do no wrong.
"Jack, Jack, there's a letter," whispered Molly, clutching at him. "And, oh! she won't open it. She won't tell us how they are!"
"All right," murmured Jack. He understood Molly's whisper and the look in Polly's face; and as he kissed his grandmother he took up the letter which reposed upon her knee. No human being except Jack might have ventured on such a liberty, but he was a privileged being. "Ah, from France!" quoth Jack, with composure. "Will you allow me to open it, ma'am? You are busy, and news of any sort or kind from France in these days is to be welcomed."