aware that she did so, and delighted in teasing her by affecting a knowledge of family-plans and details of affairs of which she was ignorant. Indoors, she was jealous of the fancy Lady Harriet had evidently taken for her stepdaughter, and she contrived to place quiet obstacles in the way of a too frequent intercourse between them. These obstacles were not unlike the shield of the knight in the old story; only, instead of the two sides presented to the two travellers approaching it from opposite quarters, one of which was silver, and one of which was gold, Lady Harriet saw the smooth and shining yellow radiance, while poor Molly only perceived a dull and heavy lead. To Lady Harriet it was “Molly is gone out; she will be sorry to miss you, but she was obliged to go and see some old friends of her mother’s whom she ought not to neglect; and I said to her, constancy is everything. It is Sterne, I think, who says, ‘Thine own and thy mother’s friends forsake not.’ But, dear Lady Harriet, you’ll stop till she comes home, won’t you? I know how fond you are of her; in fact’ (with a little surface-playfulness) “I sometimes say you come more to see her than your poor old Clare.”

To Molly it had previously been—

“Lady Harriet is coming here this morning. I can’t have any one else coming in. Tell Maria to say I’m not at home. Lady Harriet has always so much to tell me; dear Lady Harriet! I’ve known all her secrets since she was twelve years old. You two girls must keep out of the way. Of course she’ll ask for you, out of common civility; but you would only interrupt us if you came in, as you did the other day;”—now addressing Molly—“I hardly like to say so, but I thought it was very forward.”

“Maria told me she had asked for me,” put in Molly simply.

“Very forward indeed!” continued Mrs. Gibson, taking no furthur notice of the interruption, except to strengthen the words to which Molly’s little speech had been intended as a correction.

“I think, this time, I must secure her ladyship from the chances of such an intrusion, by taking care that you are out of the house, Molly. You had better go to the Holly Farm, and speak about those damsons I ordered, and which have never been sent.”

“I’ll go,” said Cynthia. “It’s far too long a walk for Molly; she’s had a bad cold, and isn’t as strong as she was a fortnight ago. I delight in long walks. If you want Molly out of the way, mamma, send her to the Miss Brownings; they are always glad to see her.”

“I never said I wanted Molly out of the way, Cynthia,” replied Mrs. Gibson. “You always put things in such an exaggerated—I might almost say, so coarse a manner. I am sure, Molly, my love, you could never have so misunderstood me; it is only on Lady Harriet’s account.”

“I don’t think I can walk as far as the Holly Farm; papa would take the message; Cynthia need not go.”

“Well! I’m the last person in the world to tax any one’s strength; I’d sooner never see damson-preserve again. Suppose you do go and see Miss Browning; you can pay her a nice long call, you know she likes that; and ask after Miss Phœbe’s cold from me, you know. They were friends of your mother’s, my dear, and I would not have you break off old friendships for the world. ‘Constancy above everything’ is my motto, as you know, and the memory of the dead ought always to be cherished.”

“Now, mamma, where am I to go?” asked Cynthia. “Though Lady Harriet doesn’t care for me as much as she does for Molly—indeed, quite the contrary, I should say— yet she might ask after me, and I had better be safely out of the way.”

“True!” said Mrs. Gibson meditatively, yet unconscious of any satire in Cynthia’s speech.

“She is much less likely to ask after you, my dear: I almost think you might remain in the house, or you might go to the Holly Farm; I really do want the damsons; or you might stay here in the dining-room, you know, so as to be ready to arrange lunch prettily, if she does take a fancy to stay for it. She is very