“When did you see her?” asked Mrs. Lloyd.  Cynthia opened her mouth as if to speak, then she glanced at Risley, whose eyes held her, and laughed instead—­a strange, nervous laugh.  Happily, Mrs. Lloyd did not wait for her answer.  She had her own important information to impart.  She had in reality stopped for that purpose.  “Well, I have seen her,” she said.  “I met her in front of Crosby’s one day last summer.  And she was so sweet-looking I stopped and spoke to her—­I couldn’t help it.  She had beautiful eyes, and the softest light curls, and she was dressed so pretty, and the flowers on her hat were nice.  The embroidery on her dress was very fine, too.  Usually, you know, those people don’t care about the fineness, as long as it is wide, and showy, and bright-colored.  I asked her what her name was, and she answered just as pretty, and her mother told me how old she was.  Her mother was a handsome woman, though she had an up-and-coming kind of way with her.  But she seemed real pleased to have me notice the child.  Where do you suppose she was all that time, Cynthia?”

“She was in some safe place, undoubtedly,” said Risley, and again Mrs. Lloyd felt that she was snubbed, though not seeing how nor why, and again she rebelled with that soft and gentle persistency in her own course which was the only rebellion of which she was capable.

“Where do you suppose she was, Cynthia?” said she.

“I think some woman must have seen her, and coaxed her in and kept her, she was such a pretty child,” said Cynthia, defiantly and desperately.  But the other woman looked at her in wonder.

“Oh, Cynthia, I can’t believe that,” said she.  “It don’t seem as if any woman could be so bad as that when the child’s mother was in such agony over her.”  And then she added, “I can’t believe it, because it seems to me that if any woman was bad enough to do that, she couldn’t have given her up at all, she was such a beautiful child.”  Mrs. Norman Lloyd had no children of her own, and was given to gazing with eyes of gentle envy at pretty, rosy little girls, frilled with white embroidery like white pinks, dancing along in leading hands of maternal love.  “It don’t seem to me I could ever have given her up, if I had once been bad enough to steal her,” she said.  “What put such an idea into your head, Cynthia?”

When the church-bell clanged out just then Lyman Risley had never been so thankful in his life.  Mrs. Lloyd rose promptly, for she had to lead the meeting, that being the custom among the sisters in her church.  “Well,” said she, “I am thankful she is found, anyway; I couldn’t have slept a wink that night if I had known she was lost, the dear little thing.  Good-night, Cynthia; don’t come to the door.  Good-night, Mr. Risley.  Come and see me, Cynthia—­do, dear.”

When Mrs. Norman Lloyd was gone, Risley looked at Cynthia with a long breath of relief, but she turned to him with seemingly no appreciation of it, and repeated her declaration which Mrs. Lloyd’s coming had interrupted:  “Lyman, I am going there to-night—­this minute.  Will you go with me?  No, you must not go with me.  I am going!” She sprang to her feet.