ABSTRACT
Molly had her out-of-door things on, and she crept away as she was bid-den; she lifted her heavy weight of heart and body along till she came to a field, not so very far off, – where she had sought the comfort of loneliness ever since she was a child; and there, under the hedge-bank, she sate down, burying her face in her hands, and quivering all over as she thought of Cynthia’s misery, that she might not try to touch or assuage. She never knew how long she sate there, but it was long past lunch-time when once again she stole up to her room. The door opposite was open wide, – Cynthia had quitted the chamber. Molly arranged her dress and went down into the drawing-room. Cynthia and her mother sate there in the stern repose of an armed neutrality. Cynthia’s face looked made of stone, for colour and rigidity; but she was netting away as if nothing unusual had occurred. Not so Mrs. Gibson: her face bore evident marks of tears, and she looked up and greeted Molly’s entrance with a faint smiling notice. Cynthia went on as though she had never heard the opening of the door, or felt the approaching sweep of Molly’s dress. Molly took up a book, – not to read, but to have the semblance of some employment which should not necessitate conversation.
