he was, in fact, very curious to know how the visit had gone off, and took the first opportunity of being alone with Molly to question her about the lunch of the day before at Hamley Hall.

“And so you went to Hamley yesterday after all?”

“Yes; I thought you would have come. The Squire seemed quite to expect you.”

“I thought of going there at first; but I changed my mind like other people. I don’t see why women are to have a monopoly of changeableness. Well! how did it go off? Pleasantly, I suppose, for both your mother and Cynthia were in high spirits last night.”

“Yes. The dear old Squire was in his best dress and on his best behaviour, and was so prettily attentive to Cynthia; and she looked so lovely, walking about with him, and listening to all his talk about the garden and farm. Mamma was tired, and stopped indoors, so they got on very well, and saw a great deal of each other.”

“And my little girl trotted behind?”

“Oh, yes. You know I was almost at home; and besides —of course——” Molly went very red, and left the sentence unfinished.

“Do you think she’s worthy of him?” asked her father, just as if she had completed her speech.

“Of Roger, papa? oh, who is? But she’s very sweet, and very, very charming.”

“Very charming if you will, but somehow I don’t quite understand her. Why does she want all this secrecy? Why wasn’t she more eager to go and pay her duty to Roger’s father? She took it as coolly as if I’d asked her to go to church?”

“I don’t think she did take it coolly; I believe I don’t quite understand her either, but I love her dearly all the same.”

“Umph; I like to understand people thoroughly, but I know it’s not necessary to women. D’ye really think she’s worthy of him?”

“Oh, papa”—said Molly, and then she stopped; she wanted to speak in favour of Cynthia, but somehow she could form no reply that pleased her to this repeated inquiry. He did not seem much to care whether he got an answer or not; for he went on with his own thoughts, and the result was that he asked Molly if Cynthia had heard from Roger.

“Yes; on Wednesday morning.”

“Did she show it to you? But of course not. Besides, I read the Squire’s letter, which told all about him.”

Now Cynthia, rather to Molly’s surprise, had told her that she might read the letter if she liked, and Molly had shrunk from availing herself of the permission, for Roger’s sake. She thought that he would probably have poured out his heart to the one sole person, and that it was not fair to listen, as it were, to his confidences.

“Was Osborne at home?” asked Mr. Gibson. “The Squire said he did not think he would have come back; but the young fellow is so uncertain”——

“No, he was still from home.” Then Molly blushed all over crimson, for it suddenly struck her that Osborne was probably with his wife—that mysterious wife, of whose existence she was cognisant, but of whom she knew so little, and of whom her father knew nothing. Mr. Gibson noticed the blush with anxiety. What did it mean? It was troublesome enough to find that one of the Squire’s precious sons had fallen