“You seem to imply you sold yourself for twenty pounds,” he said. They were nearly on the common now, close to the protection of the cottages, in very hearing of their inmates; if neither of the other two thought of this, Molly did, and resolved in her mind to call in at one of them, and ask for the labourer’s protection home; at any rate, his presence must put a stop to this miserable altercation.

“I did not ‘sell’ myself; I liked you then. But oh, how I do hate you now!” cried Cynthia, unable to contain her words.

He bowed and turned back, vanishing rapidly down the field staircase. At any rate, that was a relief. Yet the two girls hastened on, as if he was still pursuing them. Once, when Molly said something to Cynthia, the latter replied—

“Molly, if you pity me—if you love me—don’t say any thing more just now! We shall have to look as if nothing had happened when we get home. Come to my room, when we go upstairs to bed, and I’ll tell you all. I know you’ll blame me terribly; but I will tell you all.”

So Molly did not say another word till they reached home; and then, comparatively at ease, inasmuch as no one perceived how late was their return to the house, each of the girls went up into their separate rooms, to rest and calm themselves before dressing for the necessary family-gathering at dinner. Molly felt as if she were so miserably shaken that she could not have gone down at all, if her own interests only had been at stake. She sate by her dressing-table, holding her head in her hands, her candles unlighted, and the room in soft darkness, trying to still her beating heart, and to recall all she had heard, and what would be its bearing on the lives of those whom she loved. Roger! Oh, Roger! —far away in the mysterious darkness of distance—loving as he did, (ah, that was love! that was the love to which Cynthia had referred, as worthy of the name!) and the object of his love claimed by another—false to one she must be! How could it be? What would he think and feel if ever he came to know it? It was of no use trying to imagine his pain—that could do no good. What lay before Molly was, to try and extricate Cynthia, if she could help her by thought, or advice, or action; not to weaken herself by letting her fancy run into pictures of possible, probable, suffering.

When she went into the drawing-room before dinner, she found Cynthia and her mother by themselves. There were candles in the room, but they were not lighted; for the wood-fire blazed merrily and fitfully, and they were waiting for Mr. Gibson’s return, which might be expected at any minute. Cynthia sate in the shade; so it was only by her sensitive ear that Molly could judge of her state of composure. Mrs. Gibson was telling some of her day’s adventures— whom she had found at home in the calls she had been making; who had been out; and the small pieces of news she had heard. To Molly’s quick sympathy Cynthia’s voice sounded languid and weary; but she made all the proper replies, and expressed the proper interest at the right places; and Molly came to the rescue, chiming in, with an effort, it is true, but Mrs. Gibson was not one to notice slight shades or differences in manner. When Mr. Gibson returned, the relative positions of the parties were altered. It was Cynthia now who raised herself into liveliness, partly from a consciousness that he would have noticed any depression, and partly because Cynthia was one of those natural coquettes, who, from their cradle to their grave, instinctively bring out all their prettiest airs and graces, in order to stand well with any man, young or old, who may happen to be present. She listened to his remarks and stories with all the sweet intentness of happier days, till Molly, silent and wondering, could hardly believe that the Cynthia before her was the same girl as she who was sobbing and crying as if her heart would break, but two hours before. It is true, she looked pale and heavy-eyed; but that was the only sign she gave of her past trouble, which yet must be a present care, thought Molly. After dinner, Mr. Gibson went out to his town-patients; Mrs. Gibson subsided into her arm-chair, holding a sheet of the Times before her, behind which she took a quiet and lady-like doze. Cynthia had a book in one hand, with the other she shaded her eyes from the light. Molly alone could neither read, nor sleep, nor work. She sate in the seat in the bow window; the blind was not drawn down, for there was no danger of their being overlooked. She gazed into the soft outer darkness, and found herself striving to discern the outlines of objects—the cottage at the end of the garden—the great beech-tree with the seat round it—the wire-arches, up which the summer-roses had clambered; each came out faint and dim against the