Molly, it appears, was like her father, and he, poor man, had been long dead.
Molly would do anything, promise anything, if only her mother might not know.

She had not the faintest scruple in deceiving her, but this I laid, and still lay, to the strength of her love for me.
"She did love me.

She must have loved me--else how could her timid nature have taken the risk it did?
"Summer fled by like a flash.

Molly stayed with her friends as long as she could find an excuse and then went on for a brief week in Toronto.
It was the week, of course, that I returned to college.

We hoped that she could extend her stay, but her mother wrote 'Come home,' and there was no appeal from that.