to her. Roger could see her startled gesture; she turned back to say something to Mr. Henderson before coming towards the house. Now Roger spoke to Molly—spoke hurriedly, spoke hoarsely.

“Molly, tell me! Is it too late for me to speak to Cynthia? I came on purpose. Who is that man?”

“Mr. Henderson. He only came to-day—but now he is her accepted lover. Oh, Roger, forgive me the pain!”

“Tell her I have been, and am gone. Send out word to her. Don’t let her be interrupted.”

And Roger ran downstairs at full speed, and Molly heard the passionate clang of the outer door. He had hardly left the house, before Cynthia entered the room, pale and resolute.

“Where is he?” she said, looking around, as if he might yet be hidden.

“Gone!” said Molly, very faint.

“Gone. Oh, what a relief! It seems to be my fate never to be off with the old lover before I am on with the new, and yet I did write as decidedly as I could. Why, Molly, what’s the matter?” for now Molly had fainted away utterly. Cynthia flew to the bell, summoned Maria, water, salts, wine, anything; and as soon as Molly, gasping and miserable, became conscious again, she wrote a little pencil-note to Mr. Henderson, bidding him return to the George, whence he had come in the morning, and saying that, if he obeyed her at once, he might be allowed to call again in the evening; otherwise, she would not see him till the next day. This she sent down by Maria, and the unlucky man never believed but that it was Miss Gibson’s sudden indisposition in the first instance that had deprived him of his charmer’s company. He comforted himself for the long solitary afternoon by writing to tell all his friends of his happiness, and amongst them uncle and aunt Kirkpatrick, who received his letter by the same post as that discreet epistle of Mrs. Gibson’s, which she had carefully arranged to reveal as much as she wished, and no more.

“Was he very terrible?” asked Cynthia, as she sate with Molly in the stillness of Mrs. Gibson’s dressing- room.

“Oh, Cynthia, it was such pain to see him, he suffered so!”

“I don’t like people of deep feelings,” said Cynthia, pouting. “They don’t suit me. Why couldn’t he let me go without this fuss? I’m not worth his caring for!”

“You’ve the happy gift of making people love you. Remember Mr. Preston—he too wouldn’t give up hope.”

“Now, I won’t have you classing Roger Hamley and Mr. Preston together in the same sentence. One was as much too bad for me as the other is too good. Now I hope that man in the garden is the juste milieu—I’m that myself; for I don’t think I’m vicious, and I know I’m not virtuous.”

“Do you really like him enough to marry him?” asked Molly earnestly. “Do think, Cynthia! It won’t do to go on throwing your lovers off; you give pain that I’m sure you do not mean to do—that you cannot understand.”

“Perhaps I can’t. I’m not offended. I never set up for what I am not, and I know I’m not constant. I’ve told Mr. Henderson so”—— She stopped, blushing and smiling at the recollection.

“You have! and what did he say?”

“That he liked me just as I was; so you see he’s fairly warned. Only he’s a little afraid, I suppose—for he wants me to be married very soon; almost directly, in fact. But I don’t know if I shall give way—you hardly saw him, Molly —but he’s coming again to-night, and mind, I’ll never forgive you, if you don’t think