’I have been watching for you, dear.  Don’t go upstairs into the drawing-room, love.  It might be a little interruption just now.  Roger Hamley is there with Cynthia; and I’ve reason to think,—­in fact I did open the door unawares, but I shut it again softly, and I don’t think they heard me.  Is not it charming?  Young love, you know, ah, how sweet it is!’

‘Do you mean that Roger has proposed to Cynthia?’ asked Molly.

’Not exactly that.  But I don’t know; of course I know nothing.  Only I did hear him say that he had meant to leave England without speaking of his love, but that the temptation of seeing her alone had been too great for him.  It was symptomatic, was it not, my dear?  And all I wanted was to let it come to a crisis without interruption.  So I’ve been watching for you to prevent your going in and disturbing them.’

‘But I may go to my room, mayn’t I,’ pleaded Molly.

‘Of course,’ said Mrs. Gibson, a little testily.  ’Only I had expected sympathy from you at such an interesting moment.’

But Molly did not hear these last words.  She had escaped upstairs, and had shut her door.  Instinctively she had carried her leaf full of blackberries—­what would blackberries be to Cynthia now?  She felt as if she could not understand it all; but as for that matter, what could she understand?  Nothing.  For a few minutes her brain seemed in too great a whirl to comprehend anything but that she was being carried on in earth’s diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees, with as little volition on her part as if she were dead.  Then the room grew stifling, and instinctively she went to the open casement window, and leant out, gasping for breath.  Gradually the consciousness of the soft peaceful landscape stole into her mind, and stilled the buzzing confusion.  There, bathed in the almost level rays of the autumn sunlight, lay the landscape she had known and loved from childhood; as quiet, as full of low humming life as it had been at this hour for many generations.  The autumn flowers blazed out in the garden below, the lazy cows were in the meadow beyond, chewing their cud in the green aftermath; the evening fires had just been made up in the cottages beyond, in preparation for the husband’s homecoming, and were sending up soft curls of blue smoke into the still air; the children, let loose from school, were shouting merrily in the distance, and she—­Just then she heard nearer sounds; an opened door, steps on the lower flight of stairs.  He could not have gone without even seeing her.  He never, never would have done so cruel a thing—­never would have forgotten poor little Molly, however happy he might be.  No! there were steps and voices, and the drawing-room door was opened and shut once more.  She laid down her head on her arms that rested on the window-sill, and cried,—­she had been so distrustful as to have let the idea enter her mind that he could go without wishing her good-by; her, whom his mother