So Molly found in her music expression for her joy in the spring, and
her wistful, undefined sense of hope in life.

Lady Groombridge, sitting near her, listened almost hungrily, and asked
for more. She was utterly sad to-night with the "might have been" of a
childless woman. The news of the final sacrifice on the part of the heir
to Groombridge, of all that meant so much to herself and her husband,
had made so keen to her the sense of emptiness in their old age. And the
music soothed her into a deeper feeling of submission that in reality
underlay the outward unrest and discontent of to-day. Submission was, at
one time, the most marked virtue of every class in our country, and it
may be found sometimes in those who, having lost all other conscious
religion, will still say, "He knows best," revealing thereby the
bed-rock of faith as the foundation of their lives. Lady Groombridge had
not lost her religious beliefs, but she was more dutiful than devout,
and did not herself often reflect on what strength duty depended.

And Molly, who knew nothing of submission, yet ministered to the older
woman's peace by her music. When the men came out, Lord Groombridge took
a chair close to his wife's as if to share in her pleasure, and Edmund
moved out of Molly's sight. She sometimes heard the voice of Rose or of
Billy or of Mrs. Delaport Green, but not Sir Edmund's, and she naturally
thought he was listening, whereas part of the time he was reading a
review. But as the ladies were going up to bed, he said, looking into
the large, grey eyes:

"Who said she could do nothing but run like a deerhound and bandage like
a surgeon? And now I find she can play like an artist. What next?"