between her father and his wife.  Day after day, month after month, year after year, would Molly have to sympathize with her father, and pity her stepmother, feeling acutely for both, and certainly more than Mrs. Gibson felt for herself.  Molly could not imagine how she had at one time wished for her father’s eyes to be opened, and how she could ever have fancied that if they were, he would be able to change things in Mrs Gibson’s character.  It was all hopeless, and the only attempt at a remedy was to think about it as little as possible.  Then Cynthia’s ways and manners about Roger gave Molly a great deal of uneasiness.  She did not believe that Cynthia cared enough for him; at any rate, not with the sort of love that she herself would have bestowed, if she had been so happy—­no, that was not it—­if she had been in Cynthia’s place.  She felt as if she should have gone to him both hands held out, full and brimming over with tenderness, and been grateful for every word of precious confidence bestowed on her.  Yet Cynthia received his letters with a kind of carelessness, and read them with a strange indifference, while Molly sate at her feet, so to speak, looking up with eyes as wistful as a dog’s waiting for crumbs, and such chance beneficences.

She tried to be patient on these occasions, but at last she must ask,—­ ‘Where is he, Cynthia?  What does he say?’ By this time Cynthia had put down the letter on the table by her, smiling a little from time to time, as she remembered the loving compliments it contained.

‘Where?  Oh, I did not look exactly—­somewhere in Abyssinia—­Huon.’  I can’t read the word, and it does not much signify, for it would give me no idea.’

‘Is he well?’ asked greedy Molly.

’Yes, now.  He has had a slight touch of fever, he says; but it’s all over now, and he hopes he is getting acclimatized.’

’Of fever!—­and who took care of him? he would want nursing—­and so far from home.  Oh, Cynthia!’

’Oh, I don’t fancy he had any nursing, poor fellow!  One does not expect nursing, and hospitals, and doctors in Abyssinia; but he had plenty of quinine with him, and I suppose that is the best specific.  At any rate, he says he is quite well now!’

Molly sate silent for a minute or two.

‘What is the date of the letter, Cynthia?’

‘I did not look.  December the—­December the 10th.’

‘That’s nearly two months ago,’ said Molly.

’Yes; but I determined I would not worry myself with useless anxiety, when he went away.  If anything did—­go wrong, you know,’ said Cynthia, using an euphuism’ for death, as most people do (it is an ugly word to speak plain out in the midst of life), ’it would be all over before I even heard of his illness, and I could be of no use to him—­could I, Molly?’

’No.  I daresay it is all very true; only I should think the squire could not take it so easily.’

’I always write him a little note when I hear from Roger, but I don’t think I’ll name this touch of fever—­shall I, Molly?’