"It is all arranged about the picnic," exclaimed Mollie, in a joyous voice, as she entered their bedroom, where Waveney was busy packing her own and Mollie's things. It was the last day before their return to town. Moritz had come down unexpectedly the previous evening, and had paid his usual morning visit; he had gone back to the hotel to write his letters, and had promised to join them on the Parade later on.

"What picnic?" observed Waveney, absently. She was at that moment regarding with great satisfaction the new spring dresses that had just come from the dressmaker's. They had been bought with her own money; and the pretty hats, and smart boots and gloves, had all been provided from her quarter's salary, and, although Mollie had at first refused to allow Waveney to spend her money on her, she was soon persuaded that any shabbiness on the part of his young fiancÉe would be distressing to Mr. Ingram's feelings. "You know he likes people to be nicely dressed," Waveney had remarked, rather severely, "so please don't be foolish, Mollie. Surely"—in a pathetic voice—"you won't begrudge me this last chance of buying clothes for my sweetheart?" And what could Mollie do after that, except hug her silently, in token of yielding?

"What picnic?" returned Mollie, indignantly. "Why, our long-promised visit to Brentwood Hall, of course, to see dear old King Canute in the picture. Moritz says he has arranged everything with Miss Althea. I am to have a day's rest at the Red House, and on Thursday we are to go."

"But Miss Althea is always engaged on Thursday," objected Waveney. "She has her Porch House evening."

"Oh yes, I know," retorted Mollie—she was fairly glowing with excitement and happiness—"but Miss Althea says she doesn't mind being absent for once. We are to drive down to Waterloo, and Moritz will meet us there, and it is only an hour's journey by train. Moritz says that his sister has promised to join us at luncheon. I was just a wee bit frightened when he said that; but he assured me that she would not be the least formidable. She is very tall, Waveney, and very plain—at least, strangers think her so; and she always calls herself ugly, but he was sure I should soon love her. 'Gwen is the dearest girl in the world,' he went on, 'and Jack just worships her. Jack Compton is her husband, you know.' Oh Wave, I do hope she will like me."

"Of course she will like you," returned Waveney, with comfortable decision. "I would not give a fig for Mrs. Gwen if she had the bad taste not to admire my Mollie. Well, I hope it will be a fine day for Moritz's picnic, and then we can wear our new dresses. But, Mollie dear, are we really to have luncheon at Brentwood Hall? I thought Moritz said his friend was away, and that only servants were there?"

"Yes, but he says he and Lord Ralston are such close friends that he has carte blanche to do as he likes. He is Viscount Ralston, and he is very rich. Moritz says he has over thirty thousand a year. He seems to have very grand friends," went on Molly, rather thoughtfully. "I am afraid they will look down on me, a poor little lame Cinderella."

But Waveney scouted this idea with energy. Mollie was well born and well educated; no one could look down on her. Moritz would not have to blush for her, even if his friends were dukes as well as viscounts. Mollie must hold her own, and not be too humble on the subject of her own merits. It was quite evident that Moritz thought her the dearest and sweetest thing in the world, and she ought to be satisfied with that. And then Mollie cheered up and forgot her fears, and they packed happily until it was time to go out. When the eventful day arrived, Mollie woke Waveney at an unconscionably early hour, to inform her that the weather was simply perfect, and that they might wear their new dresses without fear of a shower.

It was one of those typical May days, when Nature puts on her daintiest and fairest apparel, when the fresh young green of the foliage seems to feast and rest the eyes.

The air was sweet with lilac and may; and the tender blue of the sky was unstained by a single cloud. When Mollie came downstairs, in her pretty grey dress, with a little spray of pink may at her throat, Althea thought that she matched the day itself.

"Mollie has quite recovered her looks," she said to Doreen; "the dear child is a great beauty, and Gwen will be charmed with her." And, indeed, as they drove through there were many admiring glances cast at the pretty, blushing face.

Moritz was at the station to meet them. He had a white flower in his buttonhole, and looked jubilant and excited. Perhaps he was a trifle fussy in his attentions. Mollie must take his arm, he said; the station was so crowded, and there were a lot of rough people about.

Poor Mollie felt a little nervous and conscious. It was difficult to adapt her slow, lurching walk to Monsieur Blackie's quick, springy tread. Moritz might be as tender over her infirmity as a mother over some cripple child; but Mollie, who was only human, could have wept over her own awkwardness. Perhaps her limping gait had never given her more acute pain than now, when Ingram was trying so carefully and labouriously to adapt his step to hers.

Mollie's cheeks were burning by the time they reached their compartment; but when Moritz sat down beside her with a fond look and word, she forgot her uneasiness, and was her own happy self again.

The journey was a short one. When they reached Brentwood, Moritz hurried his party through the little country station before the stationmaster had an opportunity of accosting him.

An open barouche with a fine pair of bays was awaiting them. When Waveney admired them, Moritz remarked rather complacently that Ralston was a good judge of horse-flesh. And then he asked Mollie how she would like to drive herself in a low pony-carriage with a pair of cream-coloured ponies. And Mollie, thinking that he was joking, clapped her hands gleefully.

"How delicious that would be!" she returned. "But it is very naughty of you to tantalise me in this fashion. Oh, what a dear old village!" she went on. "And, Moritz, the people seem to know you." For Moritz was lifting his hat every instant in response to some greeting.

"Oh, they are always civil to people who are staying at the Hall," returned Ingram, evasively. But at that moment he met Althea's amused glance. "Very well done, my lord," she said, under her breath; and then she shook her head at him.

They were just turning in at some open gates, and before them was a shady avenue. At the end, some more gates, of finely wrought Flemish work, admitted them to the sunny gardens and terrace; while before them stood the grand old Hall, with its grey walls and quaint gables and oriel windows embowered in ivy and creepers.

"It is a lovely old place," murmured Althea; but Mollie and Waveney were speechless with admiration. To their eyes it looked like an enchanted palace, surrounded by shimmering green lawns. The great door was wide open, as though to receive them; but there was no sign of human life. When the carriage had driven away, Moritz took Mollie's hand and led her across the wide hall, with its pillars, and grand oak carvings, its mighty fireplace, and walls covered with curious weapons, with here and there a stag's antlers, or the head of a grinning leopard.

They only paused for a moment to admire the great stone staircase, that was broad enough for a dozen men to walk abreast. One of the Ralstons, in a mad frolic, had once ridden his gallant grey up to the very top of the staircase.

"I am going to show you everything," observed Ingram, as they walked down the softly carpeted corridor. "We call this the Zoo," he continued, "for if you look at the pictures, Mollie, you will see they are mostly of animals. There are some good proof engravings of Landseer, and the sculpture is rather fine; but the most beautiful groups are in the picture-gallery, upstairs. The fifth Viscount Ralston was a connoisseur of art, and spent a good deal of his income in pictures and sculpture. It was he who brought the Flemish gates from Belgium; they are considered very fine, and are always pointed out to visitors."

Mollie began to feel a little breathless; she wanted to linger in every room, but Moritz, who had his work cut out for him, hurried her on.

They went through the big dining-room, which was large enough for a banqueting-hall, and into a smaller one, where the table was already laid for luncheon; and then into the library and morning-room. When Mollie asked, with naive curiosity, if there were no drawing-room, Moritz laughed and told her to wait.

"These are Ralston's private quarters," he said, ushering her into a cosy sitting-room, fitted up for a gentleman's use. But when Mollie would have investigated, with girlish curiosity, the mass of papers on the writing table, he quietly took her arm, and marched her into the billiard-room adjoining. "Ralston would not like us to look at his papers," he said, gravely. "He is an untidy fellow, and his writing-table is always in confusion."

"Is Lord Ralston married?" asked Mollie, presently, as they went slowly up the stone staircase. Althea, who overheard her, was obliged to pause; she was shaking with suppressed mirth; but Waveney was far too busily engaged in admiring a painted window to notice her merriment. Ingram was quite equal to the occasion.

"He is not married yet, dear," he returned, quickly, "but he does not expect to be a bachelor much longer. Shall I show you the rooms that he has chosen for his future wife, or shall we go to the picture-gallery?" But Mollie's excitement was too great for fatigue, and she at once decided to see Lady Ralston's rooms.

To Mollie's inexperienced eyes they were grand enough for the Queen. She was almost indignant when Moritz explained that the boudoir and dressing-room were to be refurnished. It was shameful extravagance, she repeated, more than once; what did it matter if the furniture was a little old fashioned? Mollie was quite eloquent on the subject, as she stood in the wide bay window of the boudoir. It was a charming window. Mollie looked straight down the avenue to the great bronze gates. The rooks were cawing in the elms; some tame pheasants were pluming themselves on the lawn below; and a wicked-looking jackdaw was strutting up and down the terrace. The beds were full of spring flowers.

"Oh, how perfect it all is!" sighed Mollie; and then she said, in quite a decided tone, "I do think it will be wicked for Lord Ralston to refurnish this room."

"There, Gwen, do you hear that?" exclaimed Moritz. And Mollie turned hastily round. A tall young lady was standing in the doorway watching her. She was quite young, but Mollie thought she had never seen any one so tall; and certainly it was her opinion, that first moment, that Mrs. John Compton was the plainest person she had ever seen.

Mollie, who was a great admirer of beauty, felt a sort of shock at the sight of Gwen's frank ugliness; her small greenish-blue eyes crinkling up with amusement, the bluntness of her features, and her wide mouth, gave Mollie a pang. She had yet to find out her redeeming points,—her beautiful figure, the rich brown hair, and pleasantly modulated voice.

"Moritz, is this my dear new sister?" asked Gwen, with a smile so bright and warm that it quite transfigured her plain face. And then, with frank kindness, she put her arms round Mollie and kissed her. "Mollie, you must be very good to me," she went on. And now there were tears in her eyes. "Moritz is my only brother, and we have been everything to each other. Have we not, old boy?" And Gwen pinched his ear playfully, and then greeted Waveney and her cousin Althea in the warmest fashion.

There was a little hubbub of talking and laughter, and then Moritz drew Mollie's arm through his and led her away.

Probably Gwen had had her orders, for, instead of following them, she made room for Waveney on the wide window-seat.

"There is something Moritz wishes me to tell you," she said, quietly, "and that he is telling your sister now."

However important Moritz's communication might be, it had to be deferred until Mollie had exhausted her whole vocabulary of admiring terms at the sight of the noble gallery.

It was a drawing-room and ball-room as well as a picture-gallery. Three great fireplaces, with their cosy environment of luxurious lounges and easy-chairs, gave warmth to the whole room. And on the other side were windows with deep recesses, every one forming separate cosy nooks. In one was a low tea-table and a circle of easy-chairs. Another was fitted with an inlaid writing-table and cabinet. A third contained only a low velvet divan. It was in this last recess that Moritz at last contrived to detain Molly.

"Dear Mollie," he said, gently but firmly, "there will be plenty of time to look at the pictures and sculpture after luncheon; but I want you to listen to me a moment. I have to ask your forgiveness for a little deception." Moritz's face was so grave that Mollie regarded him with astonishment.

"My forgiveness! Are you joking, Moritz?"

"No, darling, I am quite serious. I have brought you here under false pretences. But I will tell you all about it by-and-by. Dearest, this is your future home. It is here that you and I are to spend our lives together. Moritz Ingram and Viscount Ralston are one and the same person."

Mollie's face grew white. The little hand he held trembled with emotion.

"Oh, no, not really?" she gasped.

"Yes, really, my sweet one. But I cannot have you look so pale and frightened." Then, as Mollie glanced shyly at him, he caught her suddenly to his breast. "My little blessing," he whispered. "You loved your old friend, Monsieur Blackie; but you will not tell me now, I hope, that Ralston is to be less dear to you."

"No, no!" stammered Mollie; "but I cannot understand. Oh, Moritz, why did you do it?"

"I will tell you, dear," he returned, quietly. "You know, at one time, Gwen and I were very poor. We lived in a pokey little house that we called 'The Tin Shanty.' You shall see it some day, and I think you will own that Ten, Cleveland Terrace, is a mansion compared with it. We were almost at the end of our tether when the death of a cousin made me Viscount Ralston and master of Brentwood Hall and thirty thousand a year."

"Oh, Moritz!" and Mollie shivered and hid her face.

"I was a lucky fellow, was I not, dear? and I was truly thankful for my good things. I was always very sociable, and fond of the society of my fellow-creatures, and when Gwen married I led rather a gay life. But after a time I got disgusted. Mothers with marriageable daughters made a dead set at me. Before the season was over I could have had my pick of half a dozen beauties. Viscount Ralston, with his thirty thousand a year, was considered a desirable parti. Mollie, dear, it fairly sickened me. You know I was an Idealist, and I never could make up my mind to move in the ordinary groove, like other people, and I registered a mental vow that, unless I was loved for myself, I would never marry. When I first met my little Samaritan I had no wish to disclose my title; but it was a mere freak at first to remain incognito, until—until I saw you, my darling. Oh, Mollie, do you remember that day, and how I heard you singing, and discovered Cinderella sitting on the hearth? Shall I tell you a secret, dear? When I left the house that day I said to myself, 'I will move heaven and earth to win that girl for my wife.'"

"Oh, Moritz, did you really?"

"Yes, love, and then and there I decided to be Mr. Ingram. I had no difficulty in preserving my incognito. I bound over my cousins to secrecy. It was only your illness that complicated matters. I found, then, that it was necessary to take your father and Noel into confidence; but you and Waveney were to be kept in ignorance. Gwen is telling her at this present moment. But now, Mollie, I have finished my confession, and I only want to hear from your lips that Monsieur Blackie is forgiven."

"There is nothing to forgive," she faltered. "I think I am glad that I did not know. But oh, Moritz, there is one thing that makes me sorry." And now there was a painful flush on Mollie's cheek. "You know what I mean. I wish for your sake that I was not lame."

"My poor little darling," he returned, compassionately. "But I think I love you all the more for your helplessness. Thank Heaven, my wife will never have occasion to tire herself. The cream-coloured ponies are in the stable, Mollie, and when we are married I mean to give you riding-lessons."

And then, for very joy and gratitude, Mollie burst into a flood of happy tears.

"Oh, it is too much, too much," she sobbed. "I do not deserve such happiness. Moritz, you must teach me everything. I want to be worthy of this lovely home and you." And then shyly, but with exquisite, grace she lifted the kind hand to her lips.