“Where have you been to?” demanded Mrs. Carteret, in a voice that trembled from the reaction of fear to anger.

“I went for a walk, and I found a man lying half in the water in Brown-rushes pond; he had evidently fallen in drunk.  I got him out after nearly falling in myself, and then I had to get some one to look after him.  They took him in at Brown-rushes farm, and I found out who he was and went to tell his wife, who is ill, that he was quite safe.  I stayed a little while with her, and then I came home.  I have walked about twenty miles, and, as you can see, I have had several tumbles, and I am very tired.”

Molly’s voice had been very quiet, but very distinct, and her look and bearing were full of an unspoken defiance.

“And you never thought whether I should be frightened meanwhile?” said Mrs. Carteret.

“Frightened about me?” said Molly in astonishment.

“You had no thought for my anxiety—­the strain on my nerves,” her aunt went on.

“I thought you might be angry, but I never for a moment thought you would be frightened.”

Miss Carew looked from one to the other in alarm and perplexity.  She felt for them both, for the woman who had been startled by the extent of her fears, and was the more angry in consequence, and for Molly, who betrayed her utter want of belief in any kind of feeling on Mrs. Carteret’s part.

“If you do not care for my feelings, or, indeed, believe in them, I wish you would have some care for your own good name.”  A moment’s pause followed these words, and then in a low voice, but quite distinct, came the conclusion, “You must remember that your mother’s daughter must be more careful than other girls.”

Molly’s cheeks, just now bright from the battle with the autumn wind, became as white as marble.  There was no concealment possible; both women saw that the child realised the full import of the words, and that she knew they could read what was written on her face.  There could be no possibility of keeping up appearances after such a moment.  But Miss Carew moved forward, and flung her arms round Molly with a gesture of simple but complete womanliness.  “You must have a hot bath at once,” she cried, “or you will catch your death of cold.”

“Perhaps it would be better if I did,” cried Molly in a voice fearful to her hearers in its stony hardness and hopelessness.  “What does it matter?”

Miss Carew would have been less unhappy if the child had burst into any reproaches, however angry or unseemly; she wanted to hear her say that something was a lie, that some one was a liar, but what was so awful to the ordinary little woman was to realise that Molly believed what had been said, or rather the awful implication of what had been said.  The real horror was that Molly should come to such knowledge in such a way.

The girl made no effort to shake her off, and not the least response to her caress.  With perfect dignity she went quietly up-stairs.  With perfect dignity she let the governess and the housemaid do to her whatever they liked.  They bathed Molly, rubbed her with lotions, poulticed her with mustard, gave her a hot drink, and all the time Miss Carew’s heart ached at the impossibility of helping her in the very least.