‘With all my heart,’ said Molly.

He brought the water, and Cynthia drank, and was restored to calmness.

‘Now,’ said Molly, ’we had better go home as fast as you can manage it; it is getting dark quickly.’

If she hoped to carry Cynthia off so easily, she was mistaken.  Mr Preston was resolute on this point.  He said,—­

’I think since Miss Gibson has made herself acquainted with this much, we had better let her know the whole truth—­that you are engaged to marry me as soon as you are twenty; otherwise your being here with me, and by appointment too, may appear strange, even equivocal to her.’

’As I know that Cynthia is engaged to—­another man, you can hardly expect me to believe what you say, Mr. Preston.’

‘Oh, Molly,’ said Cynthia, trembling all over, but trying to be calm, ‘I am not engaged, neither to the person you mean, nor to Mr Preston.’

Mr. Preston forced a smile.  ’I think I have some letters that would convince Miss Gibson of the truth of what I have said; and which will convince Mr. Osborne Hamley, if necessary—­I conclude it is to him she is alluding.’

‘I am quite puzzled by you both,’ said Molly.  ’The only thing I do know is, that we ought not to be standing here at this time of evening, and that Cynthia and I shall go home directly.  If you want to talk to Miss Kirkpatrick, Mr. Preston, why don’t you come to my father’s house, and ask to see her openly, and like a gentleman.’

‘I am perfectly willing,’ said he; ’I shall only be too glad to explain to Mr. Gibson on what terms I stand in relation to her.  If I have not done it sooner, it is because I have yielded to her wishes.’

’Pray, pray don’t.  Molly—­you don’t know all—­you don’t know anything about it; you mean well and kindly, I know, but you are only making mischief.  I am quite well enough to walk, do let us go; I will tell you all about it when we are at home.’  She took Molly’s arm and tried to hasten her away; but Mr. Preston followed, talking as he walked by their side.

’I do not know what you will say at home; but can you deny that you are my promised wife?  Can you deny that it has only been at your earnest request that I have kept the engagement secret so long?’ He was unwise —­Cynthia stopped, and turned at bay.

’Since you will have it out, since I must speak here, I own that what you say is literally true; that when I was a neglected girl of sixteen, you—­whom I believed to be a friend, lent me money at my need, and made me give you a promise of marriage.’

‘Made you!’ said he, laying an emphasis on the first word.

Cynthia turned scarlet. ’"Made” is not the right word, I confess.  I liked you then—­you were almost my only friend—­and, if it had been a question of immediate marriage, I dare say I should never have objected.  But I know you better now; and you have persecuted me so of late, that I tell you once for all (as I have told you before, till I am sick of the very words), that nothing shall ever make me marry you.  Nothing.  I see there’s no chance of escaping exposure and, I dare say, losing my character, and I know losing all the few friends I have.’