Molly did not know that, as she pondered her friendship with Roger, he was even then talking about her with his father. As the two men grafted a branch on an apple tree in the orchard, the Squire urged his youngest son to try loving Molly. "I don't know why you don't put up for her still! Don't you think you could like her, if you tried?" Roger knew his heart, and said so. "There's no need for trying to love her. That's already done, but it's too late! It's too late, and she's as good as told me so. It's my own fault. There's nothing to be done. Don't let's speak of it any more."

"That's nonsense, my lad," the squire replied. "That's not the way to go about it. You made a mistake before, she won't hold it against you forever. Just tell her you love her, and if she won't have you now, then wait awhile, and ask her again, and don't give up trying till you've made her safe!"

"You don't understand, Father," Roger said.

"I understand a good deal more than you think I understand!" the Squire said, walking away in a temper. Roger continued to wind the tape around the branch, securing it so the new branch would grow in to the older tree. He smarted under his father's comments. Was he a coward, then, to give up so easily with Molly? Was he discouraged, after Cynthia's rejection? No doubt he was both, he reflected. But Molly was not Cynthia; she was a good deal more complex than her stepsister, and less likely to change her mind once it was made up. Roger couldn't tell if Molly's steadfastness would be to his favor, or not. On the one hand, she had always held him in high regard, and had said as much to him when they had spoken together on the lawn at the Cumners' house party. But, on the other hand, he knew that something was bothering her, and he resolved to try again. He must make Molly Gibson love him! There was no woman for him but Molly. He knew that now. Dear, sweet, little (Oh, if I had but dared to hold her by her slender wasp's waist!, he thought) Molly Gibson.

But Roger had precious little time to win Molly's favor, for the very next day she was required to quit Hamley Hall. Little Osbourne had come down with scarlet fever and Mr. Gibson, fearing for Molly's health, had ordered her home again. Roger was distraught. He did not want her to leave without settling things, in one way or another, between the two of them. He would leave for Africa soon – Blasted Africa!, he thought – and he could not let himself go before speaking with her first.

"I gathered these for you, to take home with you," Roger said, coming up to Molly as she came into the hall. He handed her a bouquet of hothouse flowers that he had gathered for her as she had made up her bags to leave. Molly looked sweet and lovely in a flowery white muslin, her straw bonnet tied with a brilliant green ribbon. But Roger noticed that she treated him cordially rather than in her old friendly manner. She smiled politely but her eyes did not look joyful.

If only Roger had known that Molly had little notion of how to greet him after their encounter over the microscope only the day before. She knew that he had held her just a few seconds longer than was necessary, but she didn't know what it meant or what he had intended by it. She was startled, too, by her own response to him since she had been at the hall. His presence seemed to fill the whole place, so that wherever she went, she was reminded of him. She avoided him because it confused her to come across his happy face, always smiling at her, and to think of Lord Hollingford's speculations about the two of them. She was not setting her cap at Roger Hamley, as the rest of the world seemed to think – and could Molly be helped that he, in contrast, seemed to be setting his cap at her? For here he was, bringing her flowers as a farewell gesture.

"You are kind," she said, a little too formally.

"Molly," Roger said, looking at her. "Tell me. Have I done something to vex you?" His face looked worried even as he continued: "Since you were always so happy at the Towers."

Molly shook her head. She could not lie to him, whatever people might gossip about her. But tears came to her eyes as she said, quite seriously, "No, you never vexed me in my whole life, Roger."

"Then will you give me back one of those flowers, as a pledge of what you've just said?" he asked. He wished he could ask her to pledge something more, but now was not the time. He was content to know that she was not angry with him, even if she did insist on maintaining that stilted, formal manner that she seemed to have adopted since she came to the Hall.

"Of course," Molly said, doubting that he really meant what he said. "You take whichever you like." It would not do, she thought, to be too eager to make him her champion. She rather shrunk away from the duty.

"No," Roger said. He was determined to make her recognize his purpose, his love for her. "You must choose."

This was too much for Molly. She must choose? How could she choose, when she had not even been asked? But now he was asking her. He was determined to put the choice in her hands, now. He did not want her to feel that she was his second choice. Now, it was she who must choose him, not the other way around.

Nothing in Molly's life had ever prepared her for such a decision. She had never thought that it would come to this – that Roger would ask her to love him. For she understood that that was what he was trying to say, with his gift of red roses and lilies.

Just then, Squire Hamley and Mr. Gibson came through the hall. Whatever choice Molly might have made, she put it aside in haste, acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be standing alone with Roger in the hall, accepting a bouquet of his flowers.

"Squire Hamley," she said hurriedly. "Do you know which is Roger's favorite flower?"

"A rose, I daresay," he said distractedly, continuing his conversation with Molly's father about young Osbourne's health.

Molly pulled a rose out of the bouquet and handed it to Roger. He took it solemnly, saying, "Good-bye, Molly." He couldn't bear to think that this would be their good-bye, here in the entryway to Hamley Hall. It was so different from what he had imagined when he had invited her to stay with them, but then, he had not known that she would be sent away so quickly. He had counted on at least a week more to see if she could love him, and now, she was to go away again, just when he had so little time remaining to him before he set sail.

Roger would do as his father had said. He would keep loving her, and try again for her hand when he came back from Africa. He knew that Molly would write to him, as she always done, and he reminded himself to write less about beetles and more about the heart during this next long absence. He gazed at Molly, holding his flowers, as he thought of something to say. Molly returned his gaze as long as she thought proper, before turning to walk out to the carriage where her father awaited her. Roger followed them outside and caught a glimpse of their carriage as it went around the bend. Molly thought that he looked very forlorn standing there, the Hall at his back, a red rose trailing from his fingers. What was he thinking, after all, she wondered?