But Mrs. Gibson, in her ignorance of the true state of affairs, was secretly exultant in the attraction which made him come so often and lounge away the hours in her house and garden. She had no doubt that it was Cynthia who drew him thither; and, if the latter had been a little more amenable to reason, her mother would have made more frequent allusions than she did to the crisis which she thought was approaching. But she was restrained by the intuitive conviction that, if her daughter became conscious of what was impending, and was made aware of Mrs. Gibson’s cautious and quiet efforts to forward the catastrophe, the wilful girl would oppose herself to it with all her skill and power. As it was, Mrs. Gibson trusted that Cynthia’s affections would become engaged before she knew where she was, and that in that case she would not attempt to frustrate her mother’s delicate scheming, even though she did perceive it. But Cynthia had come across too many varieties of flirtation, admiration, and even passionate love, to be for a moment at fault as to the quiet, friendly nature of Osborne’s attentions. She received him always as a sister might a brother. It was different when Roger returned from his election as a Fellow of Trinity. The trembling diffidence, the hardly suppressed ardour of his manner, made Cynthia understand before long with what kind of love she had now to deal. She did not put it into so many words—no, not even in her secret heart—but she recognised the difference between Roger’s relation to her and Osborne’s long before Mrs. Gibson found it out. Molly was, however, the first to discover the nature of Roger’s attentions. The first time they saw him after the ball, it came out to her observant eyes. Cynthia had not been looking well since that evening; she went slowly about the house, pale and heavy-eyed; and, fond as she usually was of exercise and the free fresh air, there was hardly any persuading her now to go out for a walk. Molly watched this fading with tender anxiety; but to all her questions as to whether she had felt over- fatigued with her dancing, whether anything had occurred to annoy her, and all such inquiries, she replied in languid negatives. Once, Molly touched on Mr. Preston’s name, and found that this was a subject on which Cynthia was raw; now Cynthia’s face lighted up with spirit, and her whole body showed her ill-repressed agitation, but she only said a few sharp words, expressive of anything but kindly feeling towards the gentleman, and then bade Molly never name his name to her again. Still, the latter could not imagine that he was more than intensely distasteful to her friend, as well as to herself; he could not be the cause of Cynthia’s present indisposition. But this indisposition lasted so many days without change or modification, that even Mrs. Gibson noticed it, and Molly became positively uneasy. Mrs. Gibson considered Cynthia’s quietness and languor as the natural consequence of “dancing with everybody who asked her” at the ball. Partners whose names were in the “Red Book” would apparently, according to Mrs. Gibson’s judgment, not have produced half the amount of fatigue; and, if Cynthia had been quite well, very probably she would have hit the blot in her mother’s speech with one of her touches of sarcasm. Then, again, when Cynthia did not rally, Mrs. Gibson grew impatient, and accused her of being fanciful and lazy. At length, and partly at Molly’s instance, there came an appeal to Mr. Gibson, and a professional examination of the supposed invalid, which Cynthia hated more than anything, especially when the verdict was, that there was nothing very much the matter, only a general lowness of tone and depression of health and spirits, which would soon be remedied by tonics, and meanwhile she was not to be roused to exertion.

“If there is one thing I dislike,” said Cynthia to Mr. Gibson, after he had pronounced tonics to be the cure for her present state, “it is the way doctors have of giving tablespoonfuls of nauseous mixtures as a certain remedy for sorrows and cares.” She laughed up in his face as she spoke; she had always a pretty word and smile for him, even in the midst of her loss of spirits.

“Come! you acknowledge you have ‘sorrows’ by that speech; we’ll make a bargain: if you’ll tell me your sorrows and cares, I’ll try and find some other remedy for them than giving you what you are pleased to term my nauseous mixtures.”

“No,” said Cynthia, colouring; “I never said I had sorrows and cares; I spoke generally. What should I have a sorrow about?—you and Molly are only too kind to me;” her eyes filling with tears.

“Well, well, we’ll not talk of such gloomy things, and you shall have some sweet emulsion to disguise the taste of the bitters I shall be obliged to fall back upon.”