The loneliest part of the road was the first--the lane, the wood,
the little bridge, and the clambering through the upland fields. But
Molly cared little for loneliness. She went along the lane under the
over-arching elm-branches, from which, here and there, a yellow leaf
came floating down upon her very dress; past the last cottage where
a little child had tumbled down the sloping bank, and was publishing
the accident with frightened cries. Molly stooped to pick it up, and
taking it in her arms in a manner which caused intense surprise to
take the place of alarm in its little breast, she carried it up the
rough flag steps towards the cottage which she supposed to be its
home. The mother came running in from the garden behind the house,
still holding the late damsons she had been gathering in her apron;
but, on seeing her, the little creature held out its arms to go to
her, and she dropped her damsons all about as she took it, and began
to soothe it as it cried afresh, interspersing her lulling with
thanks to Molly. She called her by her name; and on Molly asking the
woman how she came to know it, she replied that before her marriage
she had been a servant of Mrs. Goodenough, and so was "bound to
know Dr. Gibson's daughter by sight." After the exchange of two or
three more words, Molly ran down into the lane, and pursued her way,
stopping here and there to gather a nosegay of such leaves as struck
her for their brilliant colouring. She entered the wood. As she
turned a corner in the lonely path, she heard a passionate voice of
distress; and in an instant she recognized Cynthia's tones. She stood
still and looked around. There were some thick holly-bushes shining
out dark green in the midst of the amber and scarlet foliage. If
any one was there, it must be behind these thick bushes. So Molly
left the path, and went straight, plunging through the brown tangled
growth of ferns and underwood, and turned the holly bushes. There
stood Mr. Preston and Cynthia; he holding her hands tight, each
looking as if just silenced in some vehement talk by the rustle of
Molly's footsteps.
For an instant no one spoke. Then Cynthia said,--
"Oh, Molly, Molly, come and judge between us!"
Mr. Preston let go Cynthia's hands slowly, with a look that was more
of a sneer than a smile; and yet he, too, had been strongly agitated,
whatever was the subject in dispute. Molly came forward and took
Cynthia's arm, her eyes steadily fixed on Mr. Preston's face. It was
fine to see the fearlessness of her perfect innocence. He could not
bear her look, and said to Cynthia,--