What wonder that his hand closed over hers with a sense of possession? Yet neither wished at the moment that there were time for more,--it is sweet to anticipate the joy that is very near. They were on the ridge. In the hollow below lay the Mires. CHAPTER VI CYNTHIA MARLOWE Cynthia Marlowe had come to Lafer Hall when little more than a baby. She was the only child of the Admiral's only son. His soldier's death in an Afghan gorge killed his young wife, and then Cynthia was sent to her grandparents. Her life was lonely but very happy. She knew no other children, but the Admiral was always ready for a romp. There was plenty of room for them to have it without giving Mrs. Marlowe a headache. When grandmamma shook her head, and feared Cynthy would grow up a dreadful tomboy, grandpapa declared she was precluded by all facts of nature and grace from being otherwise than a lady. How could Lennox, Cholmondeley, and Marlowe in one produce an anomaly? No, no; if she did not romp, stretch her muscles, and inflate her lungs she would be puny, and he would rather she could not mark her own name than be puny. He pished at samplers, and delighted to interrupt the working-lesson. Cynthia, caught by Mrs. Marlowe, and made to sit on a little stool at her feet, with flushed cheeks and impatient fingers that tugged and tugged at the silks until they were tangled among broken threads, listened with strained senses for the Admiral's step in the corridor. So did Mrs. Marlowe, and was much the more nervous of the two. It meant release for the one and defeat for the other. 'What! ho, Cynthy,' the Admiral would say, 'snared again, my pretty bird? Getting a round back and a narrow chest for a fal-lal? Come, granny, this'll never do; you don't reason, my dear. The child'll always have a woman for her fineries; why let her risk her eyesight and her figure?' Then he would pretend it would grieve Cynthia dreadfully to lay the tangle aside, and that she far preferred the morning-room to the park. 'I'm very sorry, Cynthy, but out you must go this fine day. Granny hasn't seen the sunshine, or your tippet would have been on an hour ago. Where's your work-box? Now gently; put it in tidily; always be tidy. Don't burst the hinges. That's a good girl!' And off she would fly with the always fresh wonder whether grandpapa really had no idea how delightful it was to go. Poor Mrs. Marlowe made an equally useless struggle over books. This was a subject that had greatly exercised the Admiral too, and indecision engendered irritation. He was still more peremptory.