But when she arrived at the Gibsons’, she was detained so long there by the state of the family, that she had to give up her going to Ash-holt.

Molly was sitting in the drawing-room, pale and trembling, and keeping herself quiet only by a strong effort. She was the only person there when Lady Harriet entered; the room was all in disorder strewed with presents and paper, and pasteboard boxes, and half-displayed articles of finery.

“You look like Marius sitting amidst the ruins of Carthage, my dear! What’s the matter? Why have you got on that woe-begone face? This marriage isn’t broken off, is it? Though nothing would surprise me where the beautiful Cynthia is concerned.”

“Oh, no! that’s all right. But I’ve caught a fresh cold, and papa says he thinks I had better not go to the wedding.”

“Poor little one! And it’s the first visit to London too!”

“Yes. But what I most care for is the not being with Cynthia to the last; and then, papa—”; she stopped, for she could hardly go on without open crying, and she did not want to do that. Then she cleared her voice. “Papa,” she continued, “has so looked forward to this holiday,—and seeing—and—and going—oh! I can’t tell you where; but he has quite a list of people and sights to be seen—and now he says he should not be comfortable to leave me all alone for more than three days—two for travelling, and one for the wedding.” Just then Mrs. Gibson came in, ruffled too after her fashion, though the presence of Lady Harriet was wonderfully smoothing.

“My dear Lady Harriet—how kind of you! Ah, yes, I see this poor unfortunate child has been telling you of her ill-luck; just when everything was going on so beautifully; I’m sure it was that open window at your back, Molly— you know you would persist that it could do you no harm, and now you see the mischief! I’m sure I shan’t be able to enjoy myself—and at my only child’s wedding too—without you; for I can’t think of leaving you without Maria. I would rather sacrifice anything myself than think of you, uncared for, and dismal at home.”

“I’m sure Molly is as sorry as any one,” said Lady Harriet.

“No. I don’t think she is,” said Mrs. Gibson, with happy disregard of the chronology of events, “or she would not have sate with her back to an open window the day before yesterday, when I told her not. But it can’t be helped now. Papa too—but it is my duty to make the best of everything, and look at the cheerful side of life. I wish I could persuade her to do the same” (turning and addressing Lady Harriet). “But, you see, it is a great mortification to a girl of her age to lose her first visit to London.”

“It is not that,” began Molly; but Lady Harriet made her a little sign to be silent, while she herself spoke.

“Now, Clare! you and I can manage it all, I think, if you will but help me in a plan I’ve got in my head. Mr. Gibson shall stay as long as ever he can in London; and Molly shall be well cared for, and have some change of air and scene too, which is really what she needs as much as anything, in my poor opinion. I can’t spirit her to the wedding and give her a sight of London; but I can carry her off to the Towers, and watch her myself; and send daily bulletins up to London, so that Mr. Gibson may feel quite at ease, and stay with you as long as you like. What do you say to it, Clare?”

“Oh, I could not go,” said Molly; “I should only be a trouble to everybody.”

“Nobody asked you for your opinion, little one. If we wise elders decide that you are to go, you must submit in silence.”

Meanwhile Mrs. Gibson was rapidly balancing advantages and disadvantages. Amongst the latter, jealousy came in predominant. Amongst the former—it would sound well; Maria could then accompany Cynthia