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“Joe knows more about embalming than even Owens of Napa does,” confided Belle. “He’s got every plat in the cemetery memorized–and, his uncle having carriages and horses, it would work real well; but Scanlon wants three thousand for the business and goodwill.”

“I wish he had it and you this minute!” Molly would think. But when she opened Timmy’s bureau drawers, to find little suits and coats and socks in snowy, exquisite order; when Timmy, trim, sweet, and freshly clad, appeared for breakfast every morning, his fat hand in Belle’s, and “Dea’ Booey”–as he called her–figuring prominently in his limited vocabulary, Molly weakened again.

“Is he mad this morning?” Belle would ask in a whisper before Jerry appeared. “Say, listen! You just let him think I broke the decanter!” she suggested one day in loyal protection of Molly. “Why, I think the world and all of Mr. Tressady!” she assured Molly, when reproved for speaking of him in this way. “Wasn’t it the luckiest thing in the world–my coming up that day?” she would demand joyously over and over. Her adoption of and by the family of Tressady was–to her, at least–complete.

In January Uncle George Tressady’s estate was finally distributed, and this meant great financial ease at Rising Water. Belle, Molly said, was really getting worse and worse as she became more and more at home; and the time had come to get a nice trained nurse–some one who could keep a professional eye on Timmy, be a companion to Molly, and who would be quiet and refined, and gentle in her speech.

“And not a hint to Belle, Jerry,” Molly warned him, “until we see how it is going to work. She’ll see presently that we don’t need both.”

When Miss Marshall, cool, silent, drab of hair and eye, arrived at the ranch, Belle was instantly suspicious.

“What’s she here for? Who’s sick?” demanded Belle, coming into Mrs. Tressady’s room and closing the door behind her, her eyes bright and hard.

Molly explained diplomatically. Belle must be very polite to the new-comer; it was just an experiment–“This would be a good chance to hint that I’m not going to keep both,” thought Molly, as Belle listened.

Belle disarmed her completely, however, by coming over to her with a suddenly bright face and asking in an awed voice:

“Is it another baby? Oh, you don’t know how glad I’d be! The darling, darling little thing!”

Molly felt the tears come into her eyes–a certain warmth creep about her heart.

“No,” she said smiling; “but I’m glad you will love it if it ever comes!” This was, of course, exactly what she did not mean to say.

“If we got Miss Marshall because of Uncle George’s money,” said Belle, huffily, departing, “I wish he hadn’t died! There isn’t a thing in this world for her to do.”

Miss Marshall took kindly to idleness–talking a good deal of previous cases, playing solitaire, and talking freely to Molly of various internes and patients who admired her. She marked herself at once as unused to children by calling Timothy “little man,” and, except for a vague, friendly scrutiny of his tray three times a day, did nothing at all–even leaving the care of her room to Belle.

After a week or two, Miss Marshall went away, to Belle’s great satisfaction, and Miss Clapp came. Miss Clapp was forty, and strong and serious; she did not embroider or confide in Molly; she sat silent at meals, chewing firmly, her eyes on her plate. “What would you like me to do now?” she would ask Molly, gravely, at intervals.

Molly, with Timothy asleep and Belle sweeping, could only murmur:

“Why, just now,–let me see,–perhaps you’d like to write letters–or just read–“

“And are you going to take little Timothy with you when he wakes up?”

Molly would evade the uncompromising eyes.

“Why, I think so. The sun’s out now. You must come, too.”

Miss Clapp, coming, too, cast a damper on the drive; and she persisted in talking about the places where she was really needed.