“Perhaps not. But I cannot easily forgive the person who, by practising on your generosity, led you into this scrape. You are very young, and look upon these things as merely temporary evils. I have more experience.”

“Still, I don’t see what I can do now, papa. Perhaps I’ve been foolish; but, what I did, I did of my own self. It was not suggested to me. And I’m sure it was not wrong in morals, whatever it might be in judgment. As I said, it’s all over now; what I did ended the affair, I am thankful to say; and it was with that object I did it. If people choose to talk about me, I must submit; and so must you, dear papa.”

“Does your mother—does Mrs. Gibson—know anything about it?” asked he, with sudden anxiety.

“No; not a bit; not a word. Pray don’t name it to her. That might lead to more mischief than anything else. I have really told you everything I am at liberty to tell.”

It was a great relief to Mr. Gibson to find that this sudden fear that his wife might have been privy to it all was ill-founded. He had been seized by a sudden dread that she, whom he had chosen to marry in order to have a protectress and guide for his daughter, had been cognisant of this ill-advised adventure with Mr. Preston—nay, more, that she might even have instigated it to save her own child; for that Cynthia was, somehow or other, at the bottom of it all he had no doubt whatever. But now, at any rate, Mrs. Gibson had not been playing a treacherous part; that was all the comfort he could extract out of Molly’s mysterious admission, that much mischief might result from Mrs. Gibson’s knowing anything about these meetings with Mr. Preston.

“Then, what is to be done?” said he. “The reports are abroad,—am I to do nothing to contradict them? Am I to go about smiling and content with all this talk about you passing from one idle gossip to another?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m very sorry, for I never meant you to have known anything about it, and I can see now how it must distress you. But surely, when nothing more happens, and nothing comes of what has happened, the wonder and the gossip must die away. I know you believe every word I have said, and you must trust me, papa. Please, for my sake, be patient with all this gossip and cackle!”

“It will try me hard, Molly,” said he.

“For my sake, papa!”

“I don’t see what else I can do,” replied he moodily, “unless I get hold of Preston.”

“That would be the worst of all. That would make a talk. And, after all, perhaps he was not so much to blame. Yes! he was. But he behaved well to me, as far as that goes,” said she, suddenly recollecting his speech, when Mr. Sheepshanks came up in the Towers Park—“Don’t stir, you have done nothing to be ashamed of.”

“That’s true. A quarrel between men which drags a woman’s name into notice is to be avoided at any cost. But, sooner or later, I must have it out with Preston. He shall find it not so pleasant to have placed my daughter in equivocal circumstances.”

“He didn’t place me. He didn’t know I was coming; didn’t expect to meet me either time; and would far rather not have taken the letter I gave him, if he could have helped himself.”

“It’s all a mystery. I hate to have you mixed-up in mysteries.”

“I hate to be mixed-up. But what can I do? I know of another mystery which I’m pledged not to speak about. I cannot help myself.”