was aware that she had never had Cynthia’s full confidence, for with all her apparent frankness and naïveté of manner, Cynthia was extremely reserved and reticent. She knew this much of herself, and had often laughed about it to Molly, and the latter had by this time found out the truth of her friend’s assertion. But Molly did not trouble herself much about it. She too knew that there were many thoughts and feelings that flitted through her mind which she should never think of telling to any one, except perhaps—if they were ever very much thrown together—to her father. She knew that Cynthia withheld from her more than thoughts and feelings—that she withheld facts. But then, as Molly reflected, these facts might involve details of struggle and suffering—might relate to her mother’s neglect—and altogether be of so painful a character, that it would be well if Cynthia could forget her childhood altogether, instead of fixing it in her mind by the relation of her grievances and troubles. So it was not now by any want of confidence that Molly felt distanced, as it were. It was because Cynthia rather avoided than sought her companionship; because her eyes shunned the straight, serious, loving look of Molly’s; because there were certain subjects on which she evidently disliked speaking—not particularly interesting things, as far as Molly could perceive; but it almost seemed as if they lay on the road to points to be avoided. Molly felt a sort of sighing pleasure in noticing Cynthia’s changed manner of talking about Roger. She spoke of him tenderly now—“poor Roger,” as she called him; and Molly thought that she must be referring to the illness which he had mentioned in his last letter. One morning in the first week after Cynthia’s return home, just as he was going out, Mr. Gibson ran up into the drawing-room, booted and spurred, and hastily laid an open pamphlet down before her; pointing out a particular passage with his finger, but not speaking a word before he rapidly quitted the room. His eyes were sparkling, and had an amused as well as pleased expression. All this Molly noticed, as well as Cynthia’s flush of colour, as she read what was thus pointed out to her. Then she pushed it a little on one side, not closing the book, however, and went on with her work.

“What is it? may I see it?” asked Molly, stretching out her hand for the pamphlet, which lay within her reach. But she did not take it, until Cynthia had said—

“Certainly; I don’t suppose there are any great secrets in a scientific journal, full of reports of meetings.” And she gave the book a little push towards Molly.

“Oh, Cynthia!” said Molly, catching her breath as she read, “are you not proud?” For it was an account of an annual gathering of the Geographical Society, and Lord Hollingford had read a letter he had received from Roger Hamley, dated from Arracuoba, a district in Africa, hitherto unvisited by any intelligent European traveller, and about which Mr. Hamley sent many curious particulars. The reading of this letter had been received with the greatest interest, and several subsequent speakers had paid the writer very high compliments.

But Molly might have known Cynthia better than to expect an answer responsive to the feelings that prompted her question. Let Cynthia be ever so proud, ever so glad, or so grateful, or even indignant, remorseful, grievous or sorry, the very fact that she was expected by another to entertain any of these emotions, would have been enough to prevent her expressing them.

“I’m afraid I’m not as much struck by the wonder of the thing as you are, Molly. Besides, it is not news to me; at least, not entirely. I heard of the meeting before I left London; it was a good deal talked about in my uncle’s set; to be sure, I didn’t hear all the fine things they say of him there—but then, you know, that’s a mere fashion of speaking, which means nothing; somebody is bound to pay compliments, when a lord takes the trouble to read one of his letters aloud.”

“Nonsense!” said Molly. “You know you don’t believe what you are saying, Cynthia.”

Cynthia gave that pretty little jerk of her shoulders, which was her equivalent for a French shrug, but did not lift up her head from her sewing. Molly began to read the report over again.

“Why, Cynthia!” she said, “you might have been there; ladies were there. It says ‘many ladies were present.’ Oh, couldn’t you have managed to go? If your uncle’s set cared about these things, wouldn’t some of them have taken you?”