’Oh, yes!  Cynthia is coming home to-morrow, by the “Umpire,” which passes through at ten o’clock.  What an oppressive day it is for the time of the year!  I really am almost ready to faint.  Cynthia heard of some opportunity, I believe, and was only too glad to leave school a fortnight earlier than we planned.  She never gave me the chance of writing to say I did, or did not, like her coming so much before the time; and I shall have to pay for her just the same as if she had stopped.  And I meant to have asked her to bring me a French bonnet; and then you could have had one made after mine.  But I’m very glad she’s coming, poor dear.’

‘Is anything the matter with her?’ asked Molly.

‘Oh, no!  Why should there be?’

’You called her “poor dear,” and it made me afraid lest she might be ill.’

’Oh, no!  It’s only a way I got into, when Mr. Kirkpatrick died.  A fatherless girl—­you know one always does call them “poor dears.”  Oh, no!  Cynthia never is ill.  She’s as strong as a horse.  She never would have felt to-day as I have done.  Could you get me a glass of wine and a biscuit, my dear?  I’m. really quite faint.’

Mr. Gibson was much more excited about Cynthia’s arrival than her own mother was.  He anticipated her coming as a great pleasure to Molly, on whom, in spite of his recent marriage and his new wife, his interests principally centred.  He even found time to run upstairs and see the bedrooms of the two girls; for the furniture of which he had paid a pretty round sum.

’Well, I suppose young ladies like their bedrooms decked out in this way!  It’s very pretty certainly, but—­’

’I liked my own old room better, papa; but perhaps Cynthia is accustomed to such decking up.’

’Perhaps; at any rate, she’ll see we’ve tried to make it pretty.  Yours is like hers.  That’s right.  It might have hurt her, if hers had been smarter than yours.  Now, good-night in your fine flimsy bed.’

Molly was up betimes—­almost before it was light—­arranging her pretty Hamley flowers in Cynthia’s room.  She could hardly eat her breakfast that morning.  She ran upstairs and put on her things, thinking that Mrs. Gibson was quite sure to go down to the ‘George’ Inn, where the ‘Umpire’ stopped, to meet her daughter after a two years’ absence.  But to her surprise Mrs. Gibson had arranged herself at her great worsted-work frame, just as usual; and she, in her turn, was astonished at Molly’s bonnet and cloak.

‘Where are you going so early, child?  The fog hasn’t cleared away yet.’

‘I thought you would go and meet Cynthia; and I wanted to go with you.’

’She will be here in half an hour; and dear papa has told the gardener to take the wheelbarrow down for her luggage.  I’m not sure if he is not gone himself.’

‘Then are not you going?’ asked Molly, with a good deal of disappointment.

’No, certainly not.  She will be here almost directly.  And, besides, I don’t like to expose my feelings to every passer-by in High Street.  You forget I have not seen her for two years, and I hate scenes in the market-place.’