All the rest of that day Molly was depressed¹ and not well. Having anything to conceal² was so unusual — almost so unprecedented³ a circumstance with her that it preyed⁴ upon her in every way.

It was a nightmare that she could not shake off; she did so wish to forget it all, and yet every little occurrence seemed to remind her of it. The next morning’s post brought several letters; one from Roger for Cynthia, and Molly, letterless herself, looked at Cynthia as she read it, with wistful sadness; it appeared to Molly as though Cynthia should have no satisfaction in these letters, until she had told him what was her exact position with Mr. Preston; yet Cynthia was colouring and dimpling up as she always did at any pretty words of praise, or admiration⁵, or love. But Molly’s thoughts and Cynthia’s reading were both interrupted by a little triumphant⁶ sound from Mrs. Gibson, as she pushed a letter she had just received to her husband, with a —

‘There! I must say I expected that!’ Then, turning to Cynthia, she explained — ‘It is a letter from uncle Kirkpatrick, love. So kind, wishing you to go and stay with them, and help them to cheer up Helen; poor Helen! I am afraid she is very far from well. But we could not have had her here, without disturbing dear papa in his consulting-room; and, though I could have relinquished⁷ my dressing-room — he — well! so I said in my letter how you were grieved — you above all of us, because you are such a friend of Helen’s, you know — and how you longed to be of use — as I am sure you do — and so now they want you to go up directly, for Helen has quite set her heart upon it.’

Cynthia’s eyes sparkled. ‘I shall like going,’ said she — ‘all but leaving you, Molly,’ she added, in a lower tone, as if suddenly

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