Some one was thinking about her at the same time, and it was not Mr Henderson.  Roger had heard from Mr. Gibson that Cynthia had come home, and he was resolving to go to her at once, and have one strong, manly attempt to overcome the obstacles, whatever they might be—­and of their nature he was not fully aware—­that she had conjured up against the continuance of their relation to each other.  He left his father—­he left them all—­and went off into the woods, to be alone until the time came when he might mount his horse and ride over to put his fate to the touch.  He was as careful as ever not to interfere with the morning hours that were tabooed to him of old; but waiting was very hard work when he knew that she was so near, and the time so near at hand.

Yet he rode slowly, compelling himself to quietness and patience when he was once really on the way to her.

‘Mrs. Gibson at home?  Miss Kirkpatrick?’ he asked of the servant, Maria, who opened the door.  She was confused, but he did not notice it.

’I think so; I am not sure!  Will you walk up into the drawing-room, sir?  Miss Gibson is there, I know.’

So he went upstairs, all his nerves on one strain for the coming interview with Cynthia.  It was either a relief or a disappointment, he was not sure which, to find only Molly in the room.  Molly, half lying on the couch in the bow-window which commanded the garden; draped in soft white drapery, very white herself, and a laced half-handkerchief tied over her head to save her from any ill effects of the air that blew in through the open window.  He was so ready to speak to Cynthia that he hardly knew what to say to any one else.

‘I am afraid you are not so well,’ he said to Molly, who sate up to receive him, and who suddenly began to tremble with emotion.

‘I am a little tired, that’s all,’ said she; and then she was quite silent, hoping that he might go, and yet somehow wishing him to stay.  But he took a chair and placed it near her, opposite to the window.  He thought that surely Maria would tell Miss Kirkpatrick that she was wanted, and that at any moment he might hear her light quick footstep on the stairs.  He thought he ought to talk, but he could not think of anything to say.  The pink flush came out on Molly’s cheeks; once or twice she was on the point of speaking, but again she thought better of it; and the pauses between the faint disjointed remarks became longer and longer.  Suddenly, in one of these pauses, the merry murmur of distant happy voices in the garden came nearer and nearer; Molly looked more and more uneasy and flushed, and in spite of herself kept watching Roger’s face.  He could see over her into the garden.  A sudden deep colour overspread him, as if his heart had sent its blood out coursing at full gallop.  Cynthia and Mr. Henderson had come in sight; he eagerly talking to her as he bent forward to look into her face; she, her looks half averted in pretty shyness, was evidently