Molly paused, before replying—

“I suppose they would mean that, if you knew you were pretty, you would never think about your looks; you would be so certain of being liked, and that it is caring——”

“Listen! that’s eight o’clock striking. Don’t trouble yourself with trying to interpret a French girl’s meaning; but help me on with my frock, there’s a dear one.”

The two girls were dressed, and standing over the fire waiting for the carriage in Cynthia’s room, when Maria (Betty’s successor) came hurrying into the room. Maria had been officiating as maid to Mrs. Gibson; but she had had intervals of leisure, in which she had rushed upstairs, and, under the pretence of offering her services, had seen the young ladies’ dresses, and the sight of so many nice clothes had sent her into a state of excitement which made her think nothing of rushing upstairs for the twentieth time, with a nosegay still more beautiful than the two previous ones.

“Here, Miss Kirkpatrick! No, it’s not for you, miss!” as Molly, being nearer to the door, offered to take it and pass it to Cynthia. “It’s for Miss Kirkpatrick; and there’s a note for her besides!”

Cynthia said nothing, but took the note and the flowers. She held the note so that Molly could read it at the same time she did.

“I send you some flowers; and you must allow me to claim the first dance after nine o’clock, before which time I fear I cannot arrive.

C. P.”

“Who is it?” asked Molly.

Cynthia looked extremely irritated, indignant, perplexed —what was it turned her cheek so pale, and made her eyes so full of fire?

“It is Mr. Preston,” said she, in answer to Molly. “I shall not dance with him; and here go his flowers”——

Into the very middle of the embers, which she immediately stirred down upon the beautiful shining petals as if she wished to annihilate them as soon as possible. Her voice had never been raised; it was as sweet as usual; nor, though her movements were prompt enough, were they hasty or violent.

“Oh!” said Molly, “those beautiful flowers! We might have put them in water.”

“No,” said Cynthia; “it’s best to destroy them. We don’t want them; and I can’t bear to be reminded of that man.”

“It was an impertinent, familiar note,” said Molly. “What right had he to express himself in that way—no beginning, no end, and only initials! Did you know him well, when you were at Ashcombe, Cynthia?”

“Oh, don’t let us think any more about him,” replied Cynthia. “It is quite enough to spoil my pleasure at the ball to think that he will be there. But I hope I shall get engaged before he comes, so that I can’t dance with him— and don’t you, either!”

“There! they are calling for us,” exclaimed Molly, and with quick step, yet careful of their draperies, they made their way downstairs to the place where Mr. and Mrs. Gibson awaited them. Yes; Mr. Gibson was going—even if he had to leave them afterwards to attend to any professional call. And Molly suddenly began to admire her father as a handsome man, when she saw him now, in full evening attire. Mrs. Gibson, too—how pretty she was! In short, it was true that no better-looking a party than these four people entered the Hollingford ball-room that evening.