‘They all sent their love to you, Molly,’ said her father.  ’Roger Hamley said he knew how you would feel it.’

Mr. Gibson had come in very late, and was having a solitary dinner in the dining-room.  Molly was sitting near him to keep him company.  Cynthia and her mother were upstairs.  The latter was trying on a head-dress which Cynthia had made for her.

Molly remained downstairs after her father had gone out afresh on his final round among his town patients.  The fire was growing very low, and the lights were waning.  Cynthia came softly in, and taking Molly’s listless hand, that hung down by her side, sate at her feet on the rug, chafing her chilly fingers without speaking.  The tender action thawed the tears that had been gathering heavily at Molly’s heart, and they came dropping down her cheeks.

‘You loved her dearly, did you not, Molly?’

‘Yes,’ sobbed Molly; and then there was a silence.

‘Had you known her long?’

’No, not a year.  But I had seen a great deal of her.  I was almost like a daughter to her; she said so.  Yet I never bid her good-by, or anything.  Her mind became weak and confused.’

‘She had only sons, I think?’

’No; only Mr. Osborne and Mr. Roger Hamley.  She had a daughter once—­ “Fanny.”  Sometimes, in her illness, she used to call me “Fanny."’

The two girls were silent for some time, both gazing into the fire.  Cynthia spoke first,—­

‘I wish I could love people as you do, Molly!’

‘Don’t you?’ said the other, in surprise.

’No.  A good number of people love me, I believe, or at least they think they do; but I never seem to care much for any one.  I do believe I love you, little Molly, whom I have only known for ten days, better than any one.’

‘Not than your mother?’ said Molly, in grave astonishment.

‘Yes, than my mother!’ replied Cynthia, half-smiling.  ’It’s very shocking, I daresay; but it is so.  Now, don’t go and condemn me.  I don’t think love for one’s mother quite comes by nature; and remember how much I have been separated from mine!  I loved my father, if you will,’ she continued, with the force of truth in her tone, and then she stopped; ’but he died when I was quite a little thing, and no one believes that I remember him.  I heard mamma say to a caller, not a fortnight after his funeral, “Oh, no, Cynthia is too young; she has quite forgotten him”—­and I bit my lips, to keep from crying out, “Papa! papa! have I?” But it’s of no use.  Well, then mamma had to go out as a governess; she couldn’t help it, poor thing! but she didn’t much care for parting with me.  I was a trouble, I daresay.  So I was sent to school at four years old; first one school, and then another; and in the holidays, mamma went to stay at grand houses, and I was generally left with the schoolmistresses.  Once I went to the Towers; and mamma lectured me continually, and yet I was very naughty, I believe.  And so I never went again; and I was very glad of it, for it was a horrid place.’