that, if she, Molly, could save him this pain, she would. Before she could settle what to say, Mr. Preston spoke again.

“You said the other day that Cynthia was engaged. May I ask whom to?”

“No,” said Molly, “you may not. You heard her say it was not an engagement. It is not exactly; and if it were a full engagement, do you think, after what you last said, I should tell you to whom? But you may be sure of this, he would never read a line of your letters. He is too—— No! I won’t speak of him before you. You could never understand him.”

“It seems to me that this mysterious ‘he’ is a very fortunate person to have such a warm defender in Miss Gibson, to whom he is not at all engaged,” said Mr. Preston, with so disagreeable a look on his face that Molly suddenly found herself on the point of bursting into tears. But she rallied herself, and worked on—for Cynthia first, and for Roger as well.

“No honourable man or woman will read your letters; and, if any people do read them, they will be so much ashamed of it that they won’t dare to speak of them. What use can they be of to you?”

“They contain Cynthia’s reiterated promises of marriage,” replied he.

“She says she would rather leave Hollingford for ever, and go out to earn her bread, than marry you.”

His face fell a little. He looked so bitterly mortified, that Molly was almost sorry for him.

“Does she say that to you in cold blood? Do you know you are telling me very hard truths, Miss Gibson? If they are truths, that is to say,” he continued, recovering himself a little. “Young ladies are very fond of the words ‘hate’ and ‘detest.’ I’ve known many who have applied them to men whom they were hoping all the time to marry.”

“I cannot tell about other people,” said Molly; “I only know that Cynthia does”—here she hesitated for a moment; she felt for his pain, and so she hesitated; but then she brought it out—“does as nearly hate you as anybody like her ever does hate.”

“Like her?” said he, repeating the words almost unconsciously, seizing on anything to try and hide his mortification.

“I mean I should hate worse,” said Molly in a low voice.

But he did not attend much to her answer. He was working the point of his stick into the turf, and his eyes were bent on it.

“So now would you mind sending her back the letters by me? I do assure you that you cannot make her marry you.”

“You are very simple, Miss Gibson,” said he, suddenly lifting up his head. “I suppose you don’t know that there is any other feeling that can be gratified, except love. Have you never heard of revenge? Cynthia has cajoled me with promises, and little as you or she may believe me—well, it’s no use speaking of that. I don’t mean to let her go unpunished. You may tell her that. I shall keep the letters, and make use of them as I see fit when the occasion arises.”

Molly was miserably angry with herself for her mismanagement of the affair. She had hoped to succeed; she had only made matters worse. What new argument could she use? Meanwhile he went on, lashing himself up as he thought how the two girls must have talked him over, wounded vanity thus adding to the rage of disappointed love.