“Of course, if you won’t be convinced otherwise, I can have no objection. But, if you’ll take my advice, you will spare yourself the pain of a refusal. I may, perhaps, be trenching on confidence, but I think I ought to tell you that her affections are otherwise engaged.”

“It cannot be!” said Mr. Coxe. “Mr. Gibson, there must be some mistake. I have gone as far as I durst in expressing my feelings, and her manner has been most gracious. I don’t think she could have misunderstood my meaning. Perhaps she has changed her mind. It is possible that, after consideration, she has learnt to prefer another, is it not?”

“By ‘another,’ you mean yourself, I suppose. I can believe in such inconstancy” (he could not help, in his own mind, giving a slight sneer at the instance before him), “but I should be very sorry to think that Miss Kirkpatrick could be guilty of it.”

“But she may—it is a chance. Will you allow me to see her?”

“Certainly, my poor fellow”—for, intermingled with a little contempt, was a good deal of respect for the simplicity, the unworldliness, the strength of feeling, even though the feeling was evanescent—“I will send her to you directly.”

“Thank you, sir! God bless you for a kind friend!”

Mr. Gibson went upstairs to the drawing-room, where he was pretty sure he should find Cynthia. There she was, as bright and careless as usual, making up a bonnet for her mother, and chattering to Molly as she worked.

“Cynthia, you will oblige me by going down into my consulting-room at once. Mr. Coxe wants to speak to you.”

“Mr. Coxe?” said Cynthia. “What can he want with me?”

Evidently, she answered her own question as soon as it was asked, for she coloured, and avoided meeting Mr. Gibson’s severe, uncompromising look. As soon as she had left the room, Mr. Gibson sat down, and took up a new Edinburgh lying on the table, as an excuse for silence. Was there anything in the article that made him say, after a minute or two, to Molly, who sat silent and wondering— “Molly, you must never trifle with the love of an honest man. You don’t know what pain you may give.”

Presently Cynthia came back into the drawing-room, looking very much confused. Most likely she would not have returned, if she had known that Mr. Gibson was still there; but it was such an unheard-of thing for him to be sitting in that room in the middle of the day, reading or making pretence to read, that she had never thought of his remaining. He looked up at her the moment she came in; so there was nothing for it but putting a bold face on it, and going back to her work.

“Is Mr. Coxe still downstairs?” asked Mr. Gibson.

“No. He is gone. He asked me to give you both his kind regards. I believe he is leaving this afternoon.” Cynthia tried to make her manner as commonplace as possible; but she did not look up, and her voice trembled a little.

Mr. Gibson went on looking at his book for a few minutes; but Cynthia felt that more was coming, and only wished it would come quickly, for the severe silence was very hard to bear. It came at last.

“I trust this will never occur again, Cynthia!” said he, in grave displeasure. “I should not feel satisfied with the conduct of any girl, however free, who could receive marked attentions from a young man with complacency, and so lead him on to make an offer which she never meant to accept. But what must I think of a young woman in your position, engaged—yet ‘accepting most graciously,’ for that was the way Coxe expressed it—the overtures of another man? Do you consider what unnecessary pain you have


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