The autumn drifted away through all its seasons; the golden corn-harvest, the walks through the stubble fields, and rambles¹ into hazel — copses in search of nuts; the stripping of the apple-orchards of their ruddy fruit, amid the joyous² cries and shouts of watching children; and the gorgeous tulip-like colouring of the later time had now come on with the shortening days. There was comparative silence in the land, excepting for the distant shots and the whirr of the partridges as they rose up from the field.

Ever since Miss Browning’s unlucky conversation things had been ajar in the Gibsons’ house. Cynthia seemed to keep every one out at (mental) arm’s-length; and particularly avoided any private talks with Molly. Mrs. Gibson, still cherishing a grudge³ against Miss Browning for her implied accusation⁴ of not looking enough after Molly, chose to exercise a most wearying supervision⁵ over the poor girl. It was, ‘Where have you been, child?’ ‘Who did you see?’ ‘Who was that letter from?’ ‘Why were you so long out when you had only to go to so-and-so?’ just as if Molly had really been detected in carrying on some underhand intercourse⁶. She answered every question asked of her with the simple truthfulness⁷ of perfect innocence⁸; but the inquiries⁹ (although she read their motive¹⁰, and knew that they arose from no especial suspicion of her conduct, but only that Mrs Gibson might be able to say that she looked well after her stepdaughter),

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