Molly Bawn | Page 8

they didn't. But you need not be nervous.

Nothing so inspiriting----"
"Is that a joke?" demands he, interrupting her, gravely.
"Eh? Oh, no! how could you think me guilty of such a thing? I mean
that nothing so hopeful as an undeniable ghost has ever yet appeared at
Brooklyn."
"Are you sure? Perhaps, then, I am to be the happy discoverer, as this
morning early, about dawn, there came an unearthly tapping at my
window that woke me, much to my disgust. I got up, but when I had
opened the shutters could see nothing. Was not that a visitation? I
looked at my watch, and found it was past four o'clock. Then I crept
into my bed again, crestfallen,--'sold' with regard to an adventure."
"That was my magpie," cries Molly, with a merry laugh: "he always
comes pecking at that hour, naughty fellow. Oh, what a tame ending to
your romance! Your beautiful ghost come to visit you from unknown
regions, clad in white and rustling garments, has resolved itself into a
lame bird, rather poverty-stricken in the matter of feathers."
"I take it rather hardly that your dependent should come to disturb me,"
says Luttrell, reproachfully. "What have I done to him, or how have I
ingratiated myself, that he should forsake you for me? I did not think
even a meagre bird could have shown such outre taste. What fancy has
he for my window?"
"Your window?" says Molly, quickly; then as quickly recollecting, she
stops short, blushing a warm and lovely crimson. "Oh, of course,--yes,
it was odd," she says, and, breaking down under the weight of her
unhappy blush, busies herself eagerly with her flowers.
"Have I taken your bedroom?" asks he, anxiously, watching with cruel
persistency the soft roses that bloom again at his words. "Yes, I see I
have. That is too bad; and any room would have been good enough for
a soldier. Are you sure you don't hate me for all the inconvenience I
have caused you?"

"I can't be sure," says Molly, "yet. Give me time. But this I do know,
that John will quarrel with us if we remain out here any longer, as
breakfast must be quite ready by this. Come."
"When you spoke of my chamber as being haunted, a little time ago,"
says Luttrell, walking beside her on the gravel path, his hands clasped
behind his back, "you came very near the truth. After what you have
just told me, how shall I keep from dreaming about you?"
"Don't keep from it," says she, sweetly; "go on dreaming about me as
much as ever you like. I don't mind."
"But I might," says Luttrell, "when it was too late."
"True," murmurs Molly, innocently: "so you might. John says all
dreams arise from indigestion."
CHAPTER IV.
"As through the land at eve we went."
--Tennyson.
Seven long blissful summer days have surrendered themselves to the
greedy past. It is almost July. To-day is Wednesday,--to-morrow June
will be no more.
"Molly," says Mr. Massereene, with the laudable intention of rousing
Molly's ire, "this is the day for which we have accepted Lady Barton's
invitation to go to the Castle, to meet Lord and Lady Rossmere."
"'This is the cat that killed the rat, that did something or other in the
house that Jack built,'" interrupts Molly, naughtily.
"And on this occasion you have not been invited," goes on John,
serenely, "which shows she does not think you respectable,--not quite
fit for polite society; so you must stay at home, like the bold little girl,
and meditate on your misdemeanors."

"Lady Barton is a very intelligent person, who fully understands my
abhorrence of old fogies," says Miss Massereene, with dignity.
"Sour grapes," says John. "But, now that you have given such an unfair
turn to Lady Barton's motives, I feel it my duty to explain the exact
truth to Luttrell. When last, my dear Tedcastle, Molly was invited to
meet the Rossmeres, she behaved so badly and flirted so outrageously
with his withered lordship, that he became perfectly imbecile toward
the close of the entertainment, and his poor old wife was reduced
almost to the verge of tears. I blushed for her; I did indeed."
"Oh, John! how can you say such things before Mr. Luttrell? If he is
foolish enough to believe you, think what a dreadful opinion he will
have of me!" With a lovely smile at Luttrell across the bowl of flowers
that ornaments the breakfast-table. "And with such a man, too! A
terrible old person who has forgotten his native language and can only
mumble, and who has not got one tooth in his mouth or one hair on his
head, and no flesh at all to speak of."
"What a fetching description!" says Luttrell. "You excite my