’Certainly, I am sure she will be so glad to see you.  I sent her and Cynthia—­you don’t know my daughter Cynthia, I think, Mr. Coxe? she and Molly are such great friends—­out for a brisk walk this frosty day, but I think they will soon come back.’  She went on saying agreeable nothings to the young man, who received her attentions with a certain complacency, but was all the time much more engaged in listening to the well-remembered click at the front door,—­the shutting it to again with household care, and the sound of the familiar bounding footstep on the stair.  At last they came.  Cynthia entered first, bright and blooming, fresh colour in her cheeks and lips, fresh brilliance in her eyes.  She looked startled at the sight of a stranger, and for an instant she stopped short at the door, as if taken by surprise.  Then in came Molly softly behind her, smiling, happy, dimpled; but not such a glowing beauty as Cynthia.

‘Oh, Mr. Coxe, is it you?’ said she, going up to him with an outstretched hand, and greeting him with simple friendliness.

’Yes; it seems such a long time since I saw you.  You are so much grown—­so much—­well, I suppose I must not say what,’ he replied, speaking hurriedly, and holding her hand all the time rather to her discomfiture.  Then Mrs. Gibson introduced her daughter, and the two girls spoke of the enjoyment of their walk.  Mr. Coxe marred his cause in that very first interview, if indeed he ever could have had any chance, by his precipitancy in showing his feelings, and Mrs. Gibson helped him to mar it by trying to assist him.  Molly lost her open friendliness of manner, and began to shrink away from him in a way which he thought was a very ungrateful return for all his faithfulness to her these two years past, and after all she was not the wonderful beauty his fancy or his love had painted her.  That Miss Kirkpatrick was far more beautiful and much easier of access.  For Cynthia put on all her pretty airs—­her look of intent interest in what any one was saying to her, let the subject be what it would, as if it was the thing she cared the most about in the whole world; her unspoken deference; in short, all the unconscious ways she possessed by instinct of tickling the vanity of men.  So while Molly quietly repelled him, Cynthia drew him to her by her soft attractive ways; and his constancy fell before her charms.  He was thankful that he, had not gone too far with Molly, and grateful to Mr. Gibson for having prohibited all declarations two years ago.  For Cynthia, and Cynthia alone, could make him happy.  After a fortnight’s time, during which he had entirely veered round in his allegiance, he thought it desirable to speak to Mr. Gibson.  He did so with a certain sense of exultation in his own correct behaviour in the affair, but at the same time feeling rather ashamed of the confession of his own changeableness which was naturally involved.  Now it had so happened that Mr. Gibson had been unusually little at home during