given him by your thoughtless behaviour? I call it thoughtless—but it’s the mildest epithet I can apply to it. I beg that such a thing may not occur again, or I shall be obliged to characterise it more severely.”

Molly could not imagine what “more severely” could be, for her father’s manner appeared to her almost cruel in its sternness. Cynthia coloured up extremely, then went pale, and at length raised her beautiful appealing eyes full of tears to Mr. Gibson. He was touched by that look; but he resolved immediately not to be mollified by any of her physical charms of expression, but to keep to his sober judgment of her conduct.

“Please, Mr. Gibson, hear my side of the story before you speak so harshly to me. I did not mean to—to flirt. I merely meant to make myself agreeable—I can’t help doing that—and that goose of a Mr. Coxe seems to have fancied I meant to give him encouragement.”

“Do you mean that you were not aware that he was falling in love with you?” Mr. Gibson was melting into a readiness to be convinced by that sweet voice and pleading face.

“Well, I suppose I must speak truly.” Cynthia blushed and smiled—ever so little—but it was a smile, and it hardened Mr. Gibson’s heart again. “I did think once or twice that he was becoming a little more complimentary than the occasion required; but I hate throwing cold water on people, and I never thought he could take it into his silly head to fancy himself seriously in love, and to make such a fuss at the last, after only a fortnight’s acquaintance.”

“You seem to have been pretty well aware of his silliness (I should rather call it simplicity). Don’t you think you should have remembered that it might lead him to exaggerate what you were doing and saying into encouragement?”

“Perhaps. I daresay I’m all wrong, and he’s all right,” said Cynthia, piqued and pouting. “We used to say in France, that ‘les absens ont toujours tort,’ but really it seems as if here”—she stopped. She was unwilling to be impertinent to a man whom she respected and liked. She took up another point of her defence, and rather made matters worse. “Besides, Roger would not allow me to consider myself as finally engaged to him; I would willingly have done it, but he would not let me.”

“Nonsense! Don’t let us go on talking about it, Cynthia! I’ve said all I mean to say. I believe that you were only thoughtless, as I told you before. But don’t let it happen again.” He left the room at once, to put a stop to the conversation, the continuance of which would serve no useful purpose, and perhaps end by irritating him.

“Not guilty, but we recommend the prisoner not to do it again. It’s pretty much that, isn’t it, Molly?” said Cynthia, letting her tears down fall, even while she smiled. “I do believe your father might make a good woman of me yet, if he would only take the pains, and wasn’t quite so severe. And to think of that stupid little fellow making all this mischief! He pretended to take it to heart, as if he had loved me for years instead of only for days. I daresay only for hours, if the truth were told!”

“I was afraid he was becoming very fond of you,” said Molly; “at least it struck me once or twice; but I knew he could not stay long, and I thought it would only make you uncomfortable, if I said anything about it. But now I wish I had!”

“It wouldn’t have made a bit of difference,” replied Cynthia. “I knew he liked me, and I like to be liked; it’s born in me to try to make every one I come near fond of me; but then they shouldn’t carry it too far, for it becomes very troublesome if they do. I shall hate red-haired people for the rest of my life. To think of such a man as that being the cause of your father’s displeasure with me!”

Molly had a question at her tongue’s end that she longed to put; she knew it was indiscreet, but at last out it came amost against her will—