“But, oh, Cynthia, how could you go and engage yourself to Roger?” asked Molly.

“Why not?” said Cynthia, sharply turning round upon her. “I was free—I am free; it seemed a way of assuring myself that I was quite free; and I did like Roger—it was such a comfort to be brought into contact with people who could be relied upon; and I was not a stock or a stone that I could fail to be touched by his tender, unselfish love, so different to Mr. Preston’s. I know you don’t think me good enough for him; and, of course, if all this comes out, he won’t think me good enough either” (falling into a plaintive tone, very touching to hear); “and sometimes I think I’ll give him up, and go off to some fresh life amongst strangers; and once or twice I’ve thought I would marry Mr. Preston out of pure revenge, and have him for ever in my power—only I think I should have the worst of it; for he is cruel in his very soul—tigerish, with his beautiful striped skin and relentless heart. I have so begged and begged him to let me go without exposure.”

“Never mind the exposure,” said Molly. “It will recoil far more on him than harm you.”

Cynthia went a little paler. “But I said things in those letters about mamma. I was quick-eyed enough to all her faults, and hardly understood the force of her temptations; and he says he will show those letters to your father, unless I consent to acknowledge our engagement.”

“He shall not!” said Molly, rising up in her indignation, and standing before Cynthia almost as resolutely fierce as if she were in the very presence of Mr. Preston himself. “I am not afraid of him. He dare not insult me, or if he does I don’t care. I will ask him for those letters, and see if he will dare to refuse me.”

“You don’t know him,” said Cynthia, shaking her head. “He has made many an appointment with me, just as if he would take back the money—which has been sealed up ready for him this four months; or as if he would give me back my letters. Poor, poor Roger! How little he thinks of all this! When I want to write words of love to him, I pull myself up; for I have written words as affectionate to that other man. And, if Mr. Preston ever guessed that Roger and I were engaged, he would manage to be revenged on both him and me, by giving us as much pain as he could with those unlucky letters—written when I was not sixteen, Molly—only seven of them! They are like a mine under my feet, which may blow up any day; and down will come father and mother and all.” She ended bitterly enough, though her words were so light.

“How can I get them?” said Molly, thinking: “for get them I will. With papa to back me, he dare not refuse.”

“Ah! But that’s just the thing. He knows I’m afraid of your father’s hearing of it all, more than of any one else.”

“And yet he thinks he loves you!”

“It is his way of loving. He says often enough, he doesn’t care what he does so he gets me to be his wife; and that, after that, he is sure he can make me love him.” Cynthia began to cry, out of weariness of body and despair of mind. Molly’s arms were round her in a minute, and she pressed the beautiful head to her bosom, and laid her own cheek upon it, and hushed her up with lulling words, just as if she were a little child.

“Oh, it is such a comfort to have told you all!” murmured Cynthia. And Molly made reply—“I am sure we have right on our side; and that makes me certain he must and shall give up the letters.”

“And take the money?” added Cynthia, lifting her head, and looking eagerly into Molly’s face. “He must take the money. Oh, Molly, you can never manage it all without its coming out to your father! And I would far rather go out to Russia as a governess. I almost think I would rather—no, not that,” said she, shuddering away from what she was going to say. “But he must not know—please, Molly, he must not know. I couldn’t bear it. I don’t know what I might not do. You’ll promise me never to tell him—or mamma?”