There, as she had said, was Molly, fast asleep, half lying, half sitting, by the rough open fireplace, her head on a little wooden stool on which Marie had placed a cushion, her long fair hair falling over her face and shoulders--little sobs from time to time interrupting her soft, regular breathing.
Sylvia's eyes filled with tears.
"Poor Molly," she whispered to aunty, "she must have been crying so.

And do you know, aunty, when Molly does cry and gets really unhappy, it is dreadful.

She seems so careless, you know, but once she does care, she cares more than any one I know.

And look, aunty." She pointed to a little parcel on the floor at Molly's side.

A parcel very much done up with string, and an unnecessary amount of sealing-wax, and fastened to the parcel a little note addressed to "dear grandmother." "Shall I run with it to grandmother ?" said Sylvia: and aunty nodding permission, off she set.