Mrs Gibson was pouring out, unheard and unheeded, words of farewell; Cynthia was rearranging some flowers in a vase on the table, the defects in which had caught her artistic eye, without the consciousness penetrating to her mind.Molly stood, numb to the heart; neither glad nor sorry, nor anything but stunned.She felt the slackened touch of the warm grasping hand; she looked up - for till now her eyes had been downcast, as if there were heavy weights to their lids - and the place was empty where he had been ; his quick step was heard on the stair, the front door was opened and shut;and then as quick as lightning Molly ran up to the front attic - the lumber-room, whose window commanded the street down which he must pass.The window-clasp was unused and stiff, Molly tugged at it - unless it was open, and her head put out, that last chance would be gone.'I must see him again; I must! I must!' she wailed out, as she was pulling.
There he was, running hard to catch the London coach; his luggage had been left at the 'George' before he came up to wish the Gibsons good-by.In all his hurry, Molly saw him turn round and shade his eyes from the level rays of the westering sun, and rake the house with his glances - in hopes, she knew, of catching one more glimpse of Cynthia.But apparently he saw no one, not even Molly at the attic casement.for she had drawn back when he had turned, and kept herself in shadow; for she had no right to put herself forward as the one to watch and yearn for farewell signs.None came - another moment - he was out of sight for years.She shut the window softly, and shivered all over.She left the attic and went to her own room; but she did not begin to take off her out-of-door things till she heard Cynthia's foot on the stairs.Then she hastily went to the toilet-table, and began to untie her bonnet-strings; but they were in a knot, and took time to undo.Cynthia's step stopped at Molly's door;she opened it a little and said, - 'May I come in, Molly?' 'Certainly,' said Molly, longing to be able to say 'No' all the time.Molly did not turn to meet her, so Cynthia came up behind her, and putting her two hands round Molly's waist, peeped over her shoulder, putting out her lips to be kissed.Molly could not resist the action - the mute entreaty for a caress.But in the moment before she had caught the reflection of the two faces in the glass; her own, red-eyed, pale, with lips dyed with blackberry juice, her curls tangled, her bonnet pulled awry, her gown torn - and contrasted it with Cynthia's brightness and bloom, and the trim elegance of her dress.'Oh! it is no wonder!' thought poor Molly, as she turned round, and put her arms round Cynthia, and laid her head for an instant on her shoulder - the weary, aching head that sought a loving pillow in that supreme moment! The next she had raised herself, and taken Cynthia's two hands, and was holding her off a little, the better to read her face.'Cynthia! you do love him dearly, don't you?' Cynthia winced a little aside from the penetrating steadiness of those eyes.'You speak with all the solemnity of an adjuration, Molly!' said she, laughing a little at first to cover her nervousness, and then looking up at Molly.
'Don't you think I have given a proof of it? But you know I've often told you I've not the gift of loving; I said pretty much the same thing to him.
