of those whom she loved.  Roger.  Oh, Roger!—­far away in mysterious darkness of distance—­loving as he did (ah, that was love!  That was the love to which Cynthia had referred, as worthy of the name!) and the object of his love claimed by another—­ false to one she must be!  How could it be?  What would he think and feel if ever he came to know it?  It was of no use trying to imagine his pain—­that could do no good.  What lay before Molly was to try and extricate Cynthia, if she could help her by thought, or advice, or action; not to weaken herself by letting her fancy run into pictures of possible, probable suffering.

When she went into the drawing-room before dinner, she found Cynthia and her mother tete-a-tete.  There were candles in the room, but they were not lighted, for the wood-fire blazed merrily if fitfully, and they were awaiting Mr. Gibson’s return, which might be expected at any minute.  Cynthia sate in the shade, so it was only by her sensitive ear that Molly could judge of her state of composure.  Mrs. Gibson was telling some of her day’s adventures—­whom she had found at home in the calls she had been making; who had been out; and the small pieces of news she had heard.  To Molly’s quick sympathy Cynthia’s voice sounded languid and weary, but she made all the proper replies, and expressed the proper interest at the right places, and Molly came to the rescue, chiming in, with an effort, it is true; but Mrs. Gibson was not one to notice slight shades or differences in manner.  When Mr. Gibson returned, the relative positions of the parties were altered.  It was Cynthia now who raised herself into liveliness, partly from a consciousness that he would have noticed any depression, and partly because, from her cradle to her grave, Cynthia was one of those natural coquettes, who instinctively bring out all their prettiest airs and graces in order to stand well with any man, young or old, who may happen to be present.  She listened to his remarks and stories with all the sweet intentness of happier days, till Molly, silent and wondering, could hardly believe that the Cynthia before her was the same girl as she who was sobbing and crying as if her heart would break not two hours before.  It is true she looked pale and heavy-eyed, but that was the only sign she gave of her past trouble, which yet must be a present care, thought Molly.  After dinner, Mr. Gibson went out to his town patients; Mrs. Gibson subsided into her arm-chair, holding a sheet of The Times before her, behind which she took a quiet and lady-like doze.  Cynthia had a book in one hand, with the other she shaded her eyes from the light.  Molly alone could neither read, nor sleep, nor work.  She sate in the seat in the bow-window; the blind was not drawn down, for there was no danger of their being overlooked.  She gazed into the soft outer darkness, and found herself striving to discern the outlines of objects—­the cottage at the end of the garden—­the great