Molly had noticed this look before, always at the mention of this one person.

"If you want us to sympathize with you, tell us what is the nature of your woe."

"It is a large sheet, and Cynthia has written on one half to me, and all the rest is to papa."

"I did not mean to offend you, but I meant just to give Molly a hint. She understands what I mean."

He brought the water, and Cynthia drank, and was restored to calmness.

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

"He seemed to think you were fully engaged to him, and that these letters were the only proof he had. I think he loves you in his way."

"I can't help thinking it was a pity that Cynthia did not tell them of her engagement."

"If that's all!" said Miss Browning, drawing herself up, "I can do that; and, perhaps, better than a woman who has a husband to please."

He sate down by her patiently, when he saw her agitation, and took her hand in a kind, friendly manner.

She looked at him with the air of a person expecting an answer, and expecting a truthful answer.

Cynthia lifted her bowed-down head, and looked at him.

She laid her hand on the hot damp skin of the horse's shoulder; the man started.

"Indeed! I should not have fancied he had liked the engagement so much."

"I don't know. I don't know what Frenchwomen are like. People say Cynthia is French."

"You have the happy gift of making people love you. Remember Mr. Preston,—he too wouldn't give up hope."

"I am not going to thank you, Molly, or to tell you how I love you."

"Leave it to those to whom it is necessary. I dislike planning marriages or looking forward to deaths about equally."

"I shall never try, father. Don't let us talk any more about it. As I said before, it's too late."

"To be sure. And you will see your father. But I don't heave such portentous sighs at the thought."