“That’s it, Mr. Gibson! you do not treat her like your own child.” But in the midst of this wrangle Molly stole out, and went in search of Cynthia. She thought she bore an olive-branch of healing in the sound of her father’s just spoken words: “I do love her almost as if she were my own child.” But Cynthia was locked into her room, and refused to open the door.

“Open to me, please,” pleaded Molly. “I have something to say to you—I want to see you—do open!”

“No!” said Cynthia. “Not now. I am busy. Leave me alone. I don’t want to hear what you have got to say. I don’t want to see you. By-and-by we shall meet, and then”—— Molly stood quite quietly, wondering what new words of more persuasion she could use. In a minute or two Cynthia called out, “Are you there still, Molly?” and when Molly answered “Yes,” and hoped for a relenting, the same hard, metallic voice, telling of resolution and repression, spoke out, “Go away. I cannot bear the feeling of your being there—waiting and listening. Go downstairs—out of the house—anywhere away. It is the most you can do for me now.”