Odd made even — Inside the Classic

fire fiercely as she spoke; now she dashed down the poker and ran out of the room. Molly looked after her with a little sigh.

"Betty is so—so uneven," she said to herself. "She is always getting upset over nothing at all. She'll be back in a minute full of remorse and repentance. It would wear me out to live as she does!"

Her fair head bent over some manuscript paper on the table before her. A dreamy look took possession of her deep blue eyes.

"Now, where was I when she interrupted me? Poor Elfrida! I must make her see Roderick once again before he dies; she must have the comfort of a last farewell!"

But Molly was not to be left in peace to the woes of her heroine. A maid came into the room.

"Mrs. Stuart would like to see you, miss."

"All right, Margaret. Has the doctor been?"

"He has just gone, miss."

Molly left the room, and made her way upstairs to her mother's bedroom.

Mrs. Stuart lay on a couch by the fire. A square table covered with papers was drawn up by her side. She was a very beautiful woman still, though threads of silver ran through her wavy brown hair, and many fine wrinkles and lines were discernible round her dark expressive eyes. She looked at her eldest daughter a little keenly.

Molly was always a fair sight to look upon—a sweet, fresh English maiden, with a sunny golden head and irreproachable features, and soft red lips that looked as if only smiles could come from them. Molly was blest with a happy, sunshiny disposition. She took life easily, and her cares and sorrows at present were bound up in the life of the heroine of her imagination. She was young enough and gay enough to like to revel in imaginary misery. She was devoted to her mother, and now bent down lovingly, and kissed her forehead.

Only Molly dared to be demonstrative with Mrs. Stuart; she was not one who liked or encouraged tokens of affection from her children.

"Are you better, mother?"

"I suppose so. I must be, after this long period of rest and convalescence. Just look at my batch of correspondence! I have been unable to touch it yet, and Dr. Forsyth actually forbade me to write a line to-day. You must give me an hour, and answer all those that are important. Where is Betty? I want her too, for I must speak to you both. Dr. Forsyth wants me to leave town at once."

Molly looked surprised.

"I will fetch Betty," she said; and, leaving her mother's room quietly, she sped up another flight of stairs, and knocked at her sister's door.

It was locked. Betty herself was standing by her window, looking down with wistful restless eyes into the dreary rain-sodden London square below her. Her heart was hot within her. Betty could not take life so easily as Molly did. It did not satisfy her; it was continually disappointing her. She looked for such great things; she had such a capacity for enjoyment; and yet the very gold seemed to turn to dust when she touched it.

Her life was in the same groove as Molly's, they shared their pleasures and friends together; yet what seemed natural and pleasant to the one, worried and irritated the other.

It was as Molly said, "over nothing at all" that Betty vexed her soul.

For three years the young girls had been enjoying London Society under their mother's wing. Their father had died when they were still in the schoolroom. They had never seen much of him, as his whole life was absorbed in politics; and it was only after their education was finished, and they had been presented at court, that mother and daughters drew nearer together. Mrs. Stuart saw that it was her duty to accompany her daughters to entertainments which otherwise would have been distasteful to her. She was herself more interested in literary clubs and soirées than in ballrooms; and philanthropic objects appealed to her more than garden-parties, regattas, and the various amusements that her daughters were supposed to require.