No more news of Roger until some time after Cynthia had returned from her London visit.  She came back looking fresher and prettier than ever, beautifully dressed, thanks to her own good taste, and her cousins’ generosity, full of amusing details of the gay life she had been enjoying, yet not at all out of spirits at having left it behind her.  She brought home all sorts of pretty and dainty devices for Molly; a neck ribbon made up in the newest fashion, a pattern for a tippet, a delicate pair of light gloves embroidered as Molly had never seen gloves embroidered before, and many another little sign of remembrance during her absence.  Yet somehow or other, Molly felt that Cynthia was changed in her relation to her.  Molly was aware that she had never had Cynthia’s full confidence, for with all her apparent frankness and naivete of manner, Cynthia was extremely reserved and reticent.  She knew this much of herself, and had often laughed about it to Molly, and the latter had found out the truth of her friend’s assertion for herself.  But Molly did not trouble herself much about this, She too knew that there were many thoughts and feelings that flitted through her mind that she should never think of telling to any one, except perhaps—­if they were ever very much thrown together—­to her father.  She knew that Cynthia withheld from her more than thoughts and feelings—­that she withheld facts.  But then, as Molly reflected, these facts might involve details of struggle and suffering, might relate to her mother’s neglect, and altogether be of so painful a character, that it would be well if Cynthia could forget her childhood altogether, instead of fixing it in her mind by the relation of her grievances and troubles.  So it was not now by any want of confidence that Molly felt distanced as it were.  It was because Cynthia rather avoided than sought her companionship; because her eyes shunned the straight, serious, loving look of Molly’s; because there were certain subjects on which she evidently disliked speaking, not particularly interesting things as far as Molly could perceive, but it almost seemed as if they lay on the road to points to be avoided.  Molly felt a sort of sighing pleasure in noticing Cynthia’s changed manner of talking about Roger.  She spoke of him tenderly now; ‘poor Roger,’ as she called him; and Molly thought that she must be referring to the illness which he had mentioned in his last letter.  One morning in the first week after Cynthia’s return home, just as he was going out, Mr. Gibson ran up into the drawing-room, hat on, booted and spurred, and hastily laid an open pamphlet down before her; pointing out a particular passage with his finger, but not speaking a word before he rapidly quitted the room.  His eyes were sparkling, and had an amused as well as pleased expression.  All this Molly noticed, as well as Cynthia’s flush of colour as she read what was thus pointed out to her.  Then she pushed it a little on one side, not closing the book however, and went on with her work.