"I don't know," said Cynthia, wearily. "I didn't care at the time, and I don't care now; for she went on to say there was a very pretty widow too, who made desperate love to him. He had often laughed with them at all her little advances, which she thought he didn't see through. And, oh! and this was the man I had promised to marry, and gone into debt to, and written love-letters to! So now you understand it all, Molly."
"No, I don't yet. What did you do on hearing how he had spoken about your mother?"
"There was but one thing to do. I wrote and told him I hated him, and would never, never marry him, and would pay him back his money and the interest on it as soon as ever I could."
"Well?"
"And Mdme. Lefevre brought me back my letter,—unopened, I will say; and told me that she didn't allow letters to gentlemen to be sent by the pupils of her establishment unless she had previously seen their contents. I told her he was a family friend, the agent who managed mamma's affairs—I really could not stick at the truth; but she wouldn't let it go; and I had to see her burn it, and to give her my promise I wouldn't write again before she would consent not to tell mamma. So I had to calm down and wait till I came home."
"But you didn't see him then; at least, not for some time?"
"No, but I could write; and I began to try and save up my money to pay him."
"What did he say to your letter?"
"Oh, at first he pretended not to believe I could be in earnest; he thought it was only pique, or a temporary offence to be apologized for and covered over with passionate protestations."
"And afterwards?"