“Would it? Then she shall have plenty of it; but mind, it is you who have answered for her. She shall get me some wool too; how good I am to confer so much pleasure on a fellow-creature! But, seriously, do you think I might write and give her a few commissions? Neither Agnes nor Mary is in town”——

“I am sure she would be delighted,” said Mrs. Gibson, who also took into consideration the reflection of aristocratic honour that would fall upon Cynthia, if she had a letter from Lady Harriet, while at Mr. Kirkpatrick’s. So she gave the address, and Lady Harriet wrote. All the first part of the letter was taken up with apology and commissions; but then, never doubting but that Cynthia was aware of Molly’s state, she went on to say—

“I saw Molly this morning. Twice I have been forbidden admittance, as she was too ill to see any one out of her own family. I wish we could begin to perceive a change for the better; but she looks more fading every time, and I fear Mr. Gibson considers it a very anxious case.”

The day but one after this letter was despatched, Cynthia walked into the drawing-room at home, with as much apparent composure as if she had left it not an hour before. Mrs. Gibson was dozing, but believing herself to be reading; she had been with Molly the greater part of the morning, and now, after her lunch, and the invalid’s pretence of early dinner, she considered herself entitled to some repose. She started up as Cynthia came in.

“Cynthia! Dear child, where have you come from? Why in the world have you come? My poor nerves! My heart is quite fluttering; but, to be sure, it’s no wonder with all this anxiety I have to undergo. Why have you come back?”

“Because of the anxiety you speak of, mamma. I never knew—you never told me—how ill Molly was.”

“Nonsense! I beg your pardon, my dear, but it’s really nonsense. Molly’s illness is only nervous, Mr. Gibson says. A nervous fever; but you must remember nerves are mere fancy, and she’s getting better. Such a pity for you to have left your uncle’s. Who told you about Molly?”

“Lady Harriet. She wrote about some wool”——

“I know—I know. But you might have known she always exaggerates things. Not but what I have been almost worn out with nursing. Perhaps, after all, it is a very good thing you have come, my dear; and now you shall come down into the dining-room and have some lunch, and tell me all the Hyde Park Street news—into my room— don’t go into yours yet—Molly is so sensitive to noise!”

While Cynthia ate her lunch, Mrs. Gibson went on questioning. “And your aunt, how is her cold? And Helen, quite strong again? Margaretta as pretty as ever? The boys are at Harrow, I suppose? And my old favourite, Mr. Henderson?” She could not manage to slip in this last inquiry naturally; in spite of herself, there was a change of tone, an accent of eagerness. Cynthia did not reply on the instant; she poured herself out some water with great deliberation, and then said—

“My aunt is quite well; Helen is as strong as she ever is, and Margaretta very pretty. The boys are at Harrow, and I conclude that Mr. Henderson is enjoying his usual health, for he was to dine at my uncle’s to-day.”

“Take care, Cynthia. Look how you are cutting that gooseberry tart,” said Mrs. Gibson, with sharp annoyance; not provoked by Cynthia’s present action, although it gave excuse for a little vent of temper. “I can’t think how you could come off in this sudden kind of way; I am sure it must have annoyed your uncle and aunt. I daresay they’ll never ask you again.”

“On the contrary, I am to go back there as soon as ever I can be easy to leave Molly.”