at Madame Lefevre’s, a new English girl came—­a cousin of his, who knew but little of me.  Now, Molly, you must forget as soon as I have told you what I am going to say—­and she used to talk much and perpetually about her cousin Robert—­he was the great man of the family, evidently—­and how he was so handsome, and every lady of the land in love with him,—­a lady of title into the bargain.’

‘Lady Harriet!  I dare say,’ said Molly, indignantly.

‘I don’t know,’ said Cynthia, wearily.  ’I didn’t care at the time, and I don’t care now; for she went on to say there was a very pretty widow too, who made desperate love to him.  He had often laughed with them at all her little advances, which she thought he did not see through,—­ and—­oh,—­and this was the man I had promised to marry, and gone into debt to, and written love-letters to.  So now you understand it all, Molly.’

’No, I don’t yet.  What did you do on hearing how he had spoken about your mother?’

’There was but one thing to do.  I wrote and told him I hated him, and would never, never marry him, and would pay him back his money and the interest of it as soon as ever I could.’

‘Well?’

’And Madame Lefevre brought me back my letter,—­unopened, I will say; and told me that she did not allow letters to gentlemen to be sent by the pupils of her establishment unless she had previously seen their contents.  I told her he was a family friend, the agent who managed mamma’s affairs—­I really could not stick at the truth; but she would not let it go; and I had to see her burn it, and to give her my promise I would not write again before she would consent not to tell mamma.  So I had to calm down, and wait till I came home.’

‘But you did not see him then; at least, not for some time.’

’No, but I could write; and I began to try and save up my money to pay him.’

‘What did he say to your letter?’

’Oh, at first he pretended not to believe I could be in earnest; he thought it was only pique, or a temporary offence to be apologized for and covered over with passionate protestations.’

‘And afterwards?’

’He condescended to threats; and, what is worse, then I turned coward.  I could not bear to have it all known and talked about, and my silly letters shown—­oh, such letters—­I cannot bear to think of them, beginning, “My dearest Robert,” to that man—­’

‘But, oh, Cynthia, how could you go and engage yourself to Roger?’ asked Molly.

‘Why not?’ said Cynthia, sharply turning round upon her.  ’I was free—­I am free; it seemed a way of assuring myself that I was quite free; and I did like Roger—­it was such a comfort to be brought into contact with people who could be relied upon; and I was not a stock or a stone that I could fail to be touched with his tender, unselfish love, so different to Mr. Preston’s.  I know you don’t think me good enough for him; and, of course, if all this comes out, he won’t