"Yes, just a first letter, three pages long, with an account of her crossing; while to you she can write about fashions, and how the bonnets are worn in Paris, and all sorts of interesting things. But poor mothers must never expect confidential letters, I have found that out."
"You may see my letter, mamma," said Molly, "there is really nothing in it."
"And to think of her writing, and crossing to you who don't value it, while my poor heart is yearning after my lost child! Really, life is somewhat hard to bear at times."
Then there was silence—for a while.
"Do tell me something about your visit, Molly. Is Roger very heart-broken? Does he talk much about Cynthia?"
"No. He does not mention her often; hardly ever, I think."
"I never thought he had much feeling. If he had had, he would not have let her go so easily."
"I don't see how he could help it. When he came to see her after his return, she was already engaged to Mr. Henderson—he had come down that very day," said Molly, with perhaps more heat than the occasion required.
"My poor head!" said Mrs. Gibson, putting her hands up to her head. "One may see you've been stopping with people of robust health, and—excuse my saying it, Molly, of your friends—of unrefined habits, you've got to talk in so loud a voice. But do remember my head, Molly. So Roger has quite forgotten Cynthia, has he? Oh! what inconstant creatures men are! He will be falling in love with some grandee next, mark my words! They are making a pet and a lion of him, and he's just the kind of weak young man to have his head turned by it all; and to propose to some fine lady of rank, who would no more think of marrying him than of marrying her footman."
"I don't think it is likely," said Molly, stoutly. "Roger is too sensible for anything of the kind."