‘I can’t understand you, Cynthia,’ she said at length.

‘No; I dare say you can’t,’ said Cynthia, looking at her with tears in her eyes, and very tenderly, as if in atonement for her late vehemence.  ‘I am afraid—­I hope you never will.’

In a moment, Molly’s arms were round her.  ‘Oh, Cynthia,’ she murmured, ’have I been plaguing you?  Have I vexed you?  Don’t say you’re afraid of my knowing you.  Of course you’ve your faults, everybody has, but I think I love you the better for them.’

‘I don’t know that I’m so very bad,’ said Cynthia, smiling a little through the tears that Molly’s words and caresses had forced to overflow from her eyes.  ’But I have got into scrapes.  I am in a scrape now, I do sometimes believe I shall always be in scrapes, and if they ever come to light, I shall seem to be worse than I really am; and I know your father will throw me off, and I—­no, I won’t be afraid that you will, Molly.’

‘I’m sure I won’t.  Are they—­do you think—­how would Roger take it?’ asked Molly, very timidly.

’I don’t know.  I hope he will never hear of it.  I don’t see why he should, for in a little while I shall be quite clear again.  It all came about without my ever thinking I was doing wrong.  I’ve a great mind to tell you all about it, Molly.’

Molly did not like to urge it, though she longed to know, and to see if she could not offer help; but while Cynthia was hesitating, and perhaps, to say the truth, rather regretting that she had even made this slight advance towards bestowing her confidence, Mrs. Gibson came in, full of some manner of altering a gown of hers, so as to make it into the fashion of the day, as she had seen it during her visit to London.  Cynthia seemed to forget her tears and her troubles, and to throw her whole soul into millinery.

Cynthia’s correspondence went on pretty briskly with her London cousins, according to the usual rate of correspondence in those days.  Indeed Mrs. Gibson was occasionally inclined to complain of the frequency of Helen Kirkpatrick’s letters; for before the penny post came in, the recipient had to pay the postage of letters; and elevenpence-halfpenny three times a week came, according to Mrs Gibson’s mode of reckoning when annoyed, to a sum ’between three and four shillings.’  But these complaints were only for the family; they saw the wrong side of the tapestry.  Hollingford in general, the Miss Brownings in particular, heard of ’dear Helen’s enthusiastic friendship for Cynthia’ and of ’the real pleasure it was to receive such constant news—­relays of news indeed—­from London.  It was almost as good as living there!’