There was a fresh wandering air, which fluttered the ribbons in Molly's hat, as she danced on ahead, frisking in her short white skirt beside her uncle, her hand in his.

Charles was the essence of wit to Molly, with his grave face that so seldom smiled, and the twinkle in the kind eyes, that always went before those wonderful, delightful jokes which he alone could make.
Sometimes, as she laughed, she looked back at Ruth and Dare, half a field behind, in pity at what they were missing.
"Shall we wait and tell them that story, Uncle Charles ?" "No, Molly.

I dare say he is telling her another which is just as good." "I don't think he knows any like yours." "Some people like the old, old story best." "Do I know the old, old one, Uncle Charles ?" "No, Molly." "Can you tell it ?" "No.

I have never been able to tell that particular story." "And do you really think he is telling it to her now ?" with a backward glance.
"Not at this moment.

It's no good running back.