"Yes, very. My daughter writes me word, that for two days last week
the packet could not sail from Boulogne."
"Miss Kirkpatrick is at Boulogne, is she?"
"Yes, poor girl; she is at school there, trying to perfect herself
in the French language. But, Mr. Gibson, you must not call her Miss
Kirkpatrick. Cynthia remembers you with so much--affection, I may
say. She was your little patient when she had the measles here four
years ago, you know. Pray call her Cynthia; she would be quite hurt
at such a formal name as Miss Kirkpatrick from you."
"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.
"Could you love her as your daughter? Will you try? Will you give
me the right of introducing you to her as her future mother; as my
wife?"