“But, my dearest Cynthia, you could not expect—you could not have wished me to keep a secret from my husband?” pleaded Mrs. Gibson.

“No, perhaps not. At any rate, sir,” said Cynthia, turning towards him with graceful frankness, “I am glad you should know it. You have always been a most kind friend to me, and I daresay I should have told you myself, but I did not want it named; if you please, it must still be a secret. In fact, it is hardly an engagement—he” (she blushed and sparkled a little at the pronoun, which implied that there was but one “he” present in her thoughts at the moment) “would not allow me to bind myself by any promise until his return!”

Mr. Gibson looked gravely at her, irresponsive to her winning looks, which at the moment reminded him too forcibly of her mother’s ways. Then he took her hand, and said, seriously enough—“I hope you are worthy of him, Cynthia; for you have indeed drawn a prize. I have never known a truer or warmer heart than Roger’s; and I have known him boy and man.”

Molly felt as if she could have thanked her father aloud for this testimony to the value of him who was gone away. But Cynthia pouted a little, before she smiled up in his face.

“You are not complimentary, are you, Mr. Gibson?” said she. “He thinks me worthy, I suppose; and, if you have so high an opinion of him, you ought to respect his judgment of me.” If she hoped to provoke a compliment she was disappointed; for Mr. Gibson let go her hand in an absent manner, and sate down in an easy-chair by the fire, gazing at the wood embers, as if hoping to read the future in them. Molly saw Cynthia’s eyes filled with tears, and followed her to the other end of the room, where she had gone to seek some working materials.

“Dear Cynthia,” was all she said; but she pressed her hand, while trying to assist in the search.

“Oh, Molly, I am so fond of your father; what makes him speak so to me to-night?”

“I don’t know,” said Molly; “perhaps he’s tired.”

They were recalled from further conversation by Mr. Gibson. He had roused himself from his reverie, and was addressing Cynthia.

“I hope you will not consider it a breach of confidence, Cynthia; but I must tell the Squire of—of what has taken place to-day between you and his son. I have bound myself by a promise to him. He was afraid—it’s as well to tell you the truth—he was afraid” (an emphasis on this last word) “of something of this kind between his sons and one of you two girls. It was only the other day I assured him there was nothing of the kind on foot; and I told him then I would inform him at once, if I saw any symptoms.”

Cynthia looked extremely annoyed.

“It was the one thing I stipulated for—secrecy.”

“But why?” said Mr. Gibson. “I can understand your not wishing to have it made public under the present circumstances. But the nearest friends on both sides! Surely you can have no objection to that?”

“Yes, I have,” said Cynthia; “I would not have had any one know, if I could have helped it.”

“I’m almost certain Roger will tell his father.”

“No, he won’t,” said Cynthia; “I made him promise, and I think he is one to respect a promise”—with a glance at her mother, who, feeling herself in disgrace with both husband and child, was keeping a judicious silence.