you will have thought it over, and have seen that the principal- one great motive, I mean was your good. You may tell Mrs. Hamley - I meant to have told her myself, I will come again to-morrow. Good-by, Molly." For many minutes after he had ridden away-long after the sound of his horse's hoofs on the round stones of the paved lane, beyond the home-meadows, had died away · Molly stood there, shading her eyes, and looking at the empty space of air in which his form had last appeared. Her very breath seemed suspended; only, two or three times, after long intervals she drew a miserable sigh, which was caught up into a sob. She turned away at last, but could not go into the house, could not tell Mrs. Hamley, could not forget how her father had looked and 'spoken and left her. She went out by a side-door- it was the way by which the gardners passed when they took the manure into the garden and the walk to which it led was concealed from sight as much as possible by shrubs and evergreens and over-arching trees. No one would know what became of her, and, with the ingratitude of misery she added to herself, no one would care. Mrs Hamley had her own husband, her own children, her close home interests- she was very good and kind, but there was a bitter grief in Molly's heart, with which the stranger could not intermeddle. She went quickly on to the bourn which she had fixed for herself -a seat almost surrounded by the drooping leaves of a weeping-ash - a seat on the long broad terrace walk on the other side of the wood that overlooked the pleasant slope of the meadows beyond; the walk had probably been made to command this sunny, peaceful landscape, with trees, and a church spire, two or three red-tiled roofs of old cottages, and a purple bit of rising ground in the distance; and at some previous date, when there might have been a large family of Hamleys residing at the hall, ladies in hoops, and gentlemen in bag-wigs with swords by their sides, might have filled up the breadth of the terrace, as they sauntered, smiling, along. But no one ever cared to saunter there now. It was a deserted walk. The squire or his sons might cross it in passing to a little gate that led to the meadow beyond; but no one loitered there. Molly almost thought that no one knew of the hidden seat under the ash-tree but herself; for there were not more gardeners employed upon the grounds than were necessary to keep the kitchen-gardens and such of the ornamental part as was frequented by the family, or in sight of the house, in good order. When she had once got to the seat she broke out with suppressed passion of grief; she did not care to analyze the sources of her tears and sobs - her father was going to be married again - her father was angry with her; she had done very wrong-he had gone away displeased; she had lost his love, he was going to be married-away from her away from his child his little daughter forgetting her own dear, dear mother. So she thought in a tumultuous kind of way, sobbing till she was wearied out, and had to gain strength by being quiet for a time, to break forth into her passion of tears afresh. She had cast herself on the ground - that natural throne for violent sorrow and leant up against tho old moss-grown seat; sometimes burying her face in her hands; sometimes clasping them together, as if by the tight painful grasp of her fingers she could deaden mental suffering. She did not see Roger Hamley returning from the meadows, nor hear the click of the little white gate. He had been out dredg ing in ponds and ditches, and had his wet sling-net, with its imprisoned treasures of nastiness, over his shoulder. He was coming home to lunch, having always a fine mid-day appetite, though he pretended to despise the meal in theory. But he knew that his mother liked his companionship then; she depended much upon her luncheon, and was seldom downstairs and visible to her family much before the time. So he overcame his theory, for the sake of his mother, and had his reward in the hearty relish with which he kept her company in eating. He did not see Molly as he crossed the terrace-walk on his way homewards. He had gone about twenty yards on the small wood-path at right angles to the terrace, when, looking among the grass and wild plants under the trees, he spied out one which was rare, one which he had been long wishing to find in flower, and saw it at last with those bright keen eyes of his. Down went his net, skilfully twisted so as to retain its contents, while it lay amid the her bage, and he himself went with light and well-planted footsteps in search of the treasure. He was so great a lover of nature, that, without any thought, but habitually, he always avoided treading unnecessarily on any plant; who knew what long-sought growth or insect might develop itself in what now appeared but insignificant? His steps led him in the direction of the ash-tree seat, much less screened from ob servation on this side than on the terrace. I He stopped; he saw a light-coloured dress on the ground somebody half-lying on the seat, so still just then, he wondered if the person, whoever it was, had fallen ill or fainted. He paused to watch. In a minute or two the sobs broke out again-the words. It was Miss Gibson crying out in a broken voice, "Oh, papa, papa! if you would but come back! For a minute or two he thought it would be kinder to leave her believing herself unobserved; he had even made a retrograde step or two, on tip-toe; but then he heard the miserable sobbing again. It was farther than his mother could walk, or else, be the sorrow what it would, she was the natural comforter of this girl, her visitor. However, whether it was right or wrong, delicate or obtrusive, when he heard the sad voice talking again, in such tones of uncomforted, lonely misery, he turned back, and went to the green tent under the ash-tree. She started up when he came thus close to her; she tried to check her sobs, and instinctively smoothed her wet tangled hair back with her hands. He looked upon her with grave, kind sympathy, but he did not know exactly what to say. "Is it lunch-time?" said she, trying to believe that he did not see the traces of her tears and the disturbance of her featuresthat he had not seen her lying, sobbing her heart out there. "I don't know. I was going home to lunch. But you must let me say it-I couldn't go on when I saw your distress. Has anything happened?-anything in which I can help you, I mean; for, of course, I've no right to make the inquiry, if it is any private sorrow, in which I can be of no use.' She had exhausted herself so much with crying, that she felt as if she could neither stand nor walk just yet. She sate down on the seat, and sighed, and turned so pale, he thought she was going to faint. "Wait a moment," said he, quite unnecessarily, for she could not have stirred; and he was off like a shot to some spring of water that he knew of in the wood, and, in a minute or two he returned with careful steps, bringing a little in a broad green leaf, turned into an impromptu cup. Little as it was, it did her good. "Thank you!" she said: "I can walk back now, in a short time. Don't stop." "You must let me," said he: "my mother wouldn't like me to leave you to come home alone, while you are so faint.", So they remained in silence for a little while; he, breaking off and examining one or two abnormal leaves of the ash-tree, partly from the custom of his nature, partly to give her time to recover. 66 Papa is going to be married again,” said she, at length. She could not have said why she told him this; an instant before she spoke, she had no intention of doing so. He dropped the leaf he held in his hand, turned round, and looked at her. Her poor wistful eyes were filling with tears as they met his, with a dumb appeal for sympathy. Her look was much more eloquent than her words. There was a momentary pause before he replied, and then it was more because he felt that he must say something than that he was in any doubt as to the answer to the question he asked. "You are sorry for it?" She did not take her eyes away from his, as her quivering lips formed the word "Yes," though her voice made no sound. He was silent again now; looking on the ground, kicking softly at a loose pebble with his foot. His thoughts did not come readily to the surface in the shape of words; nor was he apt at giving comfort till he saw his way clear to the real source from which consolation must come. At last he spoke, almost as if he was reasoning out the matter with himself. "It seems as if there might be cases where-setting the question of love entirely on one side - it must be almost a duty to find some one to be a substitute for the mother.. I can believe," said he, in a different tone of voice, and looking at Molly afresh, "that this step may be greatly for your father's happiness- it may relieve him from many cares, and may give him a pleasant companion." "He had me. You don't know what we were to each other—at least what he was to me," she added, humbly. "Still he must have thought it for the best, or he wouldn't have done it. He may have thought it the best for your sake even more than for his own." "That is what he tried to convince me of." Roger began kicking the pebble again. He had not got hold of the right end of the clue. Suddenly he looked up. "I want to tell you of a girl I know. Her mother died when she was about sixteen - the eldest of a large family. From that time-all through the bloom of her youth she gave herself up to her father, first as his comforter, afterwards as his companion, friend, secretary-anything you like. He was a man with a great deal of business on hand, and often came home only to set to afresh to preparations for the next day's work. Harriet was always there, ready to help, to talk, or to be silent. It went on for eight or ten years in this way; and then her father married again, - a woman not many years older than Harriet herself. Wellthey are just the happiest set of people I know-you wouldn't have thought it likely, would you?" She was listening, but she had no heart to say anything. Yet she was interested in this little story of Harriet- a girl who had been so much to her father, more than Molly in this early youth of hers could have been to Mr. Gibson. "How was it?" she sighed out at last. "Harriet thought of her father's happiness before she thought of her own," Roger answered, with something of severe brevity. Molly needed the bracing. She began to cry again a little. "If it were for papa's happiness "He must believe that it is. Whatever you fancy, give him a chance. He cannot have much comfort, I should think, if he sees you fretting or pining, - you who have been so much to him, as you say. The lady herself, too—if Harriet's step-mother had been a selfish woman, and been always clutching after the gratification of her own wishes; but she was not: she was as anxious for Harriet to be happy as Harriet was for her father-and your father's future wife may be another of the same kind, though such people are rare." "I don't think she is, though," murmured Molly, a waft of recollection bringing to her mind the details of her day at the Towers long ago. Roger did not want to hear Molly's reasons for this doubting speech. He felt as if he had no right to hear more of Mr. Gibson's family life, past, present, or to come, than was absolutely necessary for him, in order that he might comfort and help the crying girl, whom he had come upon so unexpect edly. And besides, he wanted to go home, and be with his mother at lunch-time. Yet he could not leave her alone. "It is right to hope for the best about everybody, and not to expect the worst. This sounds like a truism, but it has comforted me before now, and some day you'll find it useful. One has always to try to think more of others than of one's self, and it is best not to prejudge people on the bad side. My sermons aren't long, are they? Have they given you an appetite for lunch? Sermons always make me hungry, I know." He appeared to be waiting for her to get up and come along with him, as indeed he was. But he meant her to perceive that he should not leave her; so she rose up languidly, too languid to say how much she should prefer being left alone, if he would only go away without her. She was very weak, and stumbled over the straggling root of a tree that projected across the path. He, watchful though silent, saw this stumble, and, putting out his hand, held her up from falling. He still held her hand when the occasion was past; this little physical failure impressed on his heart how young and helpless she was, and he yearned to her, remembering the passion of sorrow in which he had found her, and longing to be of some little tender bit of comfort to her before they partedbefore their tête-à-tête walk was merged in the general familiarity of the household life. Yet he did not know what to say. "You will have thought me hard," he burst out at length, as they were nearing the drawing-room windows and the garden-door. "I never can manage to express what I feel, somehow I always fall to philosophizing, but I am sorry for you. Yes, I am; it's beyond my power to help you, as far as altering facts goes, but I can feel for you in a way which it's best not to talk about, for it can do no good. Remember how sorry I am for you! I shall often be thinking of you, though I dare say it's best not to talk about it again." She said, "I know you are sorry," under her breath, and then she broke away, and ran indoors, and upstairs to the solitude of her own room. He went straight to his mother, who was sitting before the untasted luncheon, as much annoyed by the mysterious unpunctuality of her visitor as she was capable of being with anything; for she had heard that Mr. Gibson had been, and was gone, and she could not discover if he had left any message for her; and her anxiety about her own health, which some people esteemed hypochondriacal, always made her particularly craving for the wisdom which might fall from her doctor's lips. -- "Where have you been, Roger? Where is Molly? Miss Gibson, I mean," for she was careful to keep up a barrier of forms between the young man and young woman who were thrown together in the same household. "I've been out dredging. (By the way, I left my net on the terrace walk.) I found Miss Gibson sitting heart would break. be married again." there, crying as if her "Married again! You don't say so." "I'll go to her myself, poor child," said Mrs. Hamley, rising. "Indeed you must not," said he, laying his hand upon her arm. "We have kept you waiting already too long; you are looking quite pale. Hammond can take it," he continued, ringing the bell. She sate down again, almost stunned with surprise. "Whom is he going to marry?" "I don't know. I didn't ask, and she didn't tell me." "That's so like a man. Why, half the character of the affair lies in the question of whom it is that he is going to marry.” "I dare say I ought to have asked. But somehow I'm not a good one on such occasions. I was as sorry as could be for her, and yet I couldn't tell what to say." "What did you say?' "I gave her the best advice in my power." "Advice! you ought to have comforted her. Poor little Molly!" "I think that if advice is good it's the best comfort." "That depends on what you mean by advice. Hush here she is." "To their surprise, Molly came in, trying hard to look as usual. She had bathed her eyes, and arranged her hair; and was making a great struggle to keep from crying and to bring her voice into order. She was unwilling to distress Mrs. Hamley by the sight of pain and suffering. She did not know that she was following Roger's injunctions to think more of others than of herself but so she was. Mrs. Hamley was not sure if it was wise in her to begin on the piece of news she had just heard from her son; but she was too full of it herself to talk of anything else. "So I hear your father is going to be married, my dear? May I ask whom it is to?" "Mrs. Kirkpatrick, I think she was governess a long time ago at the Countess of Cumnor's. She stays with them a great deal, and they call her Clare, and I believe they are very fond of her." Molly tried to speak of her future stepmother in the most favour able manner she knew how. "I think I've heard of her. Then she is not very young? That's as it should be. A widow too. Has she any family?" "One girl, I believe. But I know so little about her!" Molly was very near crying again. "Never mind, my dear. That will all come in good time. Roger, you've hardly eaten anything; where are you going?" "To fetch my dredging-net. It's full of things I don't want to lose. Besides, I never eat much, as a general thing." The truth was partly told, not all. He thought he had better leave the other two alone. His mother had such sweet power of sympathy, that she would draw the sting out of the girl's heart in a tête-à-tête. As soon as he was gone, Molly lifted swelled eyes. up her poor and, looking at Mrs. Hamley, she said, "He was so good to me. I mean and try to remember all he said." "I'm glad to hear it, love; very glad. From what he told me, I was afraid he had been giving you a little lecture. He has a good heart, but he isn't so tender in his manner as Osborne. Roger is a little rough sometimes." "Then I like roughness. It did me good. It made me feel how badly-oh, Mrs. Hamley, I did behave so badly to papa this morning." She rose up and threw herself into Mrs. Hamley's arms, and sobbed upon her breast. Her sorrow was not now for the fact that her father was going to be married again, but for her own ill-behavour. If Roger was not tender in words, he was in deeds. Unreasonably and possibly exaggerated as Molly's grief had appeared to him, it was real suffering to her; and he took some pains to lighten it, in his own way, which was characteristic enough. That evening he adjusted his microscope, and put the treasures he had collected in his morning's ramble on a little table; and then he asked his mother to come and admire. Of course Molly came too, and this was what he had intended. He tried to interest her in his pursuit, cherished her first little morsel of curiosity, and nursed it into a very proper desire for further information. Then he brought out books on the subject, and translated the slightly pompous and technical language into homely every-day speech. Molly had come down to dinner, wondering how the long hours till bedtime would ever pass away: hours during which she must not speak on the one thing that would be occupying her mind to the exclusion of all others; for she was afraid that already she had wearied Mrs. Hamley with it during their afternoon tête-à-tête. But prayers and bedtime came long before she had expected; she had been refreshed by a new current of thought, and she was very thankful to Roger. And now there was to-morrow to come, and a confession of penitence to be made to her father. But Mr. Gibson did not want speech or words. He was not fond of expressions of feeling at any time, and perhaps, too, he felt that the less said the better on a subject about which it was evident that his daughter and he were not thoroughly and impulsively in harmony. He read her repentance in her eyes; he saw how much she had suffered; and he had a sharp pang at his heart in consequence. But he stopped her from speaking out her regret at her behaviour the day before, by a "There, there, that will do. I know all you want to say. I know little Molly my silly little goomy better than she knows herself. I've sey brought you an invitation. Lady Cumnor wants you to go and spend next Thursday at the Towers!" "Do you wish me to go?" said she, her heart sinking. "I wish you and Hyacinth to become better acquainted- to learn to love each other." "Hyacinth!" said Molly, entirely bewil dered. "Yes, Hyacinth! It's the silliest name I ever heard of; but it's hers, and I must call her by it. I can't bear Clare, which is what my lady and all the family at the Towers call her; and Mrs. Kirkpatrick' is formal and nonsensical too, as she'll change her name so soon." "When, papa?" asked Molly, feeling as if she were living in a strange, unknown world. "Not till after Michaelmas." And then, continuing on his own thoughts, he added, "And the worst is, she's gone and perpetuated her own affected name by having her daughter called after her. Cynthia! One thinks of the moon, and the man in the moon with his bundle of faggots. I'm thankful you're plain Molly, child." "How old is she- Cynthia, I mean?" "Ay, get accustomed to the name. should think Cynthia Kirkpatrick was about as old as you are. She's at school in France, picking up airs and graces. She's to come home for the wedding, so you'll be able to get acquainted with her then; though I think she's to go back again for another half-year or so.' 99 CHAPTER XI. MAKING FRIENDSHIP. I patrick was to return to England to be present at her mother's wedding; but Mrs. Kirkpatrick had no such intention. She was not what is commonly called a woman of determination; but somehow what she disliked she avoided, and what she liked she tried to do, or to have. So although in the conversation, which she had already led to, as to the when and the how she was to be married, she had listened quietly to Mr. Gibson's proposal, that Molly and Cynthia should be the two bridesmaids, she had felt how disagreeable it would be to her to have her young daughter flashing out her beauty by the side of the faded bride, her mother; and as the further arrangements for the wedding became more definite, she saw further reasons in her own mind for Cynthia's remaining quietly at her school at Boulogne. Mrs. Kirkpatrick had gone to bed that first night of her engagment to Mr. Gibson, fully anticipating a speedy marriage. She looked to it as a release from the thraldom of keeping school; keeping an unprofitable school, with barely enough of pupils to pay for house-rent and taxes, food, washing, and the requisite masters. She saw no reason for ever going back to Ashcombe, except to wind up her affairs, and to pack up her clothes. She hoped that Mr. Gibson's ardour would be such that he would press on the marriage, and urge her never to resume her school drudgery, but to relinquish it now and for ever. She even made up a very pretty, very passionate speech for him in her own mind; quite sufficiently strong to prevail upon her, and to overthrow the scruples which she felt that she ought to have at telling the parents of her pupils that she did not intend to resume school, and that they must find another place of education for their daughters, in the last week but one of the midsummer holidays. It was rather like a douche of cold water on Mrs. Kirkpatrick's plans, when the next morning at breakfast Lady Cumnor began to decide upon the arrangements and duties of the two middle-aged lovers. "Of course you can't give up your school all at once, Clare. The wedding can't be before Christmas, but that will do very well. We shall all be down at the Towers; and it will be a nice amusement for the children to go over to Ashcombe, and see you married." "I don't think I'm afraid-I don't believe Mr. Gibson will like waiting so long; men are so impatient, under these circumstances." "Oh, nonsense! Lord Cumnor has recMR. GIBSON believed that Cynthia Kirk- ommended you to his tenants, and I am sure |