"Cynthia seems to me such an out-of-the-way name, only fit for poetry, not for daily use."
"It is mine," said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a plaintive tone of reproach. "I was christened Hyacinth, and her poor father would have her called after me. I'm sorry you don't like it."
Mr. Gibson did not know what to say. He was not quite prepared to plunge into the directly personal style. While he was hesitating, she went on—
"Hyacinth Clare! Once upon a time I was quite proud of my pretty name; and other people thought it pretty, too."
"I've no doubt—" Mr. Gibson began; and then stopped.
"Perhaps I did wrong in yielding to his wish, to have her called by such a romantic name. It may excite prejudice against her in some people; and, poor child! she will have enough to struggle with. A young daughter is a great charge, Mr. Gibson, especially when there is only one parent to look after her."
"You are quite right," said he, recalled to the remembrance of Molly; "though I should have thought that a girl who is so fortunate as to have a mother could not feel the loss of her father so acutely as one who is motherless must suffer from her deprivation."
"You are thinking of your own daughter. It was careless of me to say what I did. Dear child! how well I remember her sweet little face as she lay sleeping on my bed. I suppose she is nearly grown-up now. She must be near my Cynthia's age. How I should like to see her!"
"I hope you will. I should like you to see her. I should like you to love my poor little Molly,—to love her as your own—" He swallowed down something that rose in his throat, and was nearly choking him.
"Is he going to offer? Is he?" she wondered; and she began to tremble in the suspense before he next spoke.