’Certainly, my dear love.  That was just what I was going to say.  I once knew a young lady who heard of the death of a young man in America, whom she had known pretty well; and she immediately said she had been engaged to him, and even went so far as to put on weeds; and it was a false report, for he came back well and merry, and declared to everybody he had never so much as thought about her.  So it was very awkward for her.  These things had much better be kept secret until the proper time has come for divulging them.’

Even then and there Cynthia could not resist the temptation of saying,—­

’Mamma, I will promise you I won’t put on weeds, whatever reports come of Mr. Roger Hamley.’

‘Roger, please!’ he put in, in a tender whisper.

’And you will all be witnesses that he has professed to think of me, if he is tempted afterwards to deny the fact.  But at the same time I wish it to be kept a secret until his return—­and I am sure you will all be so kind as to attend to my wish.  Please, Roger! Please, Molly!  Mamma!  I must especially beg it of you!’

Roger would have granted anything when she asked him by that name, and in that tone.  He took her hand in silent pledge of his reply.  Molly felt as if she could never bring herself to name the affair as a common piece of news.  So it was only Mrs. Gibson answered aloud,—­

’My dear child! why “especially” to poor me!  You know I’m the most trustworthy person alive!’

The little pendule on the chimney-piece struck the half-hour.

‘I must go!’ said Roger, in dismay.  ’I had no idea it was so late.  I shall write from Paris.  The coach will be at the “George” by this time, and will only stay five minutes.  Dearest Cynthia—­’ he took her hand, and then, as if the temptation was irresistible, he drew her to him and kissed her.  ‘Only remember you are free!’ said he, as he released her and passed on to Mrs. Gibson.

‘If I had considered myself free,’ said Cynthia, blushing a little, but ready with her repartee to the last,—­’if I had thought myself free, do you think I would have allowed that?’

Then Molly’s turn came; and the old brotherly tenderness came back into his look, his voice, his bearing.

’Molly! you won’t forget me, I know; I shall never forget you, nor your goodness to—­her.’  His voice began to quiver, and it was best to be gone.  Mrs. Gibson was pouring out, unheard and unheeded, words of farewell; Cynthia was rearranging some flowers in a vase on the table, the defects in which had caught her artistic eye, without the consciousness penetrating to her mind.  Molly stood, numb to the heart; neither glad nor sorry, nor anything but stunned.  She felt the slackened touch of the warm grasping hand; she looked up—­for till now her eyes had been downcast, as if there were heavy weights to their lids—­and the place was empty where he had been; his quick step was heard on the stair, the front door was opened and shut; and then as quick as lightning Molly ran up to the front attic—­the lumber-room, whose window commanded the street down which he must pass.  The window-clasp was unused and stiff, Molly tugged at it—­unless it was open, and her head put out, that last chance would be gone.