“Oh, Molly,” said Cynthia, trembling all over, but trying to be calm, “I am not engaged—neither to the person you mean, nor to Mr. Preston.”

Mr. Preston forced a smile. “I think I have some letters that would convince Miss Gibson of the truth of what I have said; and which will convince Mr. Osborne Hamley, if necessary—I conclude it is to him she is alluding.”

“I am quite puzzled by you both,” said Molly. “The only thing I do know is, that we ought not to be standing here at this time of evening, and that Cynthia and I must go home directly. If you want to talk to Miss Kirkpatrick, Mr. Preston, why don’t you come to my father’s house, and ask to see her openly, and like a gentleman?”

“I am perfectly willing,” said he; “I shall only be too glad to explain to Mr. Gibson on what terms I stand in relation to her. If I have not done it sooner, it is because I have yielded to her wishes.”

“Pray, pray don’t, Molly—you don’t know all—you don’t know anything about it; you mean well and kindly, I know, but you are only making mischief. I am quite well enough to walk, do let us go; I will tell you all about it, when we are at home.” She took Molly’s arm and tried to hasten her away; but Mr. Preston followed, talking as he walked by their side.

“I do not know what you will say at home; but can you deny that you are my promised wife? can you deny that it has only been at your earnest request that I have kept the engagement secret so long?” He was unwise— Cynthia stopped, and turned at bay.

“Since you will have it out—since I must speak, I own that what you say is literally true; that, when I was a neglected girl of sixteen, you—whom I believed to be a friend—lent me money at my need, and made me give you a promise of marriage.”

“ ‘Made you’!” said he, laying an emphasis on the first word.

Cynthia turned scarlet. “ ‘Made ’ is not the right word, I confess. I liked you then—you were almost my only friend—and, if it had been a question of immediate marriage, I dare say I should never have objected. But I know you better now; and you have persecuted me so of late, that I tell you once for all (as I have told you before, till I am sick of the very words), that nothing shall ever make me marry you. Nothing! I see there’s no chance of escaping exposure and, I dare say, losing my character and, I know, losing all the few friends I have.”

“Never me,” said Molly, touched by the wailing tone of despair that Cynthia was falling into.

“It is hard,” said Mr. Preston. “You may believe all the bad things you like about me, Cynthia, but I don’t think you can doubt my real, passionate, disinterested love for you.”

“I do doubt it,” said Cynthia, breaking out with fresh energy. “Ah! when I think of the self-denying affection I have seen—I have known—affection that thought of others before itself——”

Mr. Preston broke in at the pause she made. She was afraid of revealing too much to him.

“You do not call it love which has been willing to wait for years—to be silent while silence was desired—to suffer jealousy and to bear neglect, relying on the solemn promise of a girl of sixteen—for ‘solemn’ say ‘flimsy,’ when that girl grows older! Cynthia, I have loved you, and I do love you, and I can’t give you up. If you will but keep your word, and marry me, I’ll swear I’ll make you love me in return.”

“Oh, I wish—I wish I’d never borrowed that unlucky money; it was the beginning of it all. Oh, Molly, I have saved and scrimped to repay it, and he won’t take it now; I thought, if I could but repay it, it would set me free.”