“Oh, it was a terrible _mésalliance_. Your father ought never to have married that woman, and your friends should never have allowed you to be raised as the companion of her child. The gulf between you is wide, and there is really no relationship, you know,” he said, proudly. Molly looked at him strangely without reply. He was puzzled by her eyes--there was in them such a sudden look of anguish and pride, with something like reproach. He could not understand it, and asked himself if she meant to uphold the cause of that odious woman. But here they were at the post-office, and there was a letter for Miss Louise Barry. She caught it eagerly from his hand. “It is from my sis--my step-sister, and I know she has written for me to come home!” Molly cried, excitedly. CHAPTER IX. Molly rode very fast on returning, and she was so quiet that Cecil Laurens regarded her knit brows and pursed-up lips in surprise. “You are leading me a sort of John Gilpin race, Miss Barry. What is the matter with you?” he said. “I am impatient to read my letter,” she replied in a curt voice. They were outside the limits of the town now, and riding up the mountain road beneath tall overarching trees that lined the road on either side. He said, kindly: “We can stop long enough to read your letter, since you are so impatient.” Molly let the speed of her gray filly slacken a little, and looked round at him with candid eyes. “I would rather not,” she said. “But there would be nothing improper in doing so, and I am not in a hurry,” he urged. “Yes, I know; but I’m afraid. If I read the letter, and sis--I mean, Aunt Lucy--did not say _yes_, I should fly into a tantrum and alarm you,” with a sparkle of malice in the black eyes. “I think I _have_ seen you in a tantrum,” he replied, with equal malice. “But of course Aunt Lucy will say yes to any request of yours.” She shook her curly head despondingly, but the filly had fallen unchecked into a slower pace. “Ah, you don’t _know_, Mr. Laurens,” she said, dolorously. “You see, I wrote to Aunt Lucy that I was tired of Ferndale, and wanted to come home, but--but--I’m afraid she won’t let me go yet.” “Tired of Ferndale?” he repeated. “Yes, sick and tired,” she replied, emphatically. “I thought it would be jolly fun to come, at first, but I’ve been here three weeks now, and it’s the pokiest old hole I ever saw! I’d give anything to be back in Staunton.” “She has left a lover behind her, of course,” the young man thought to himself, and he said, in rather a cross tone: “Your aunt would be angry if she heard you abusing Ferndale like that. Do you know that it is considered a fine place?” “Yes, and I wouldn’t have Aunt Thalia know my private opinion of it. You won’t betray me, will you?” smiling. “No, but I’m sorry you want to get away from Ferndale,” with unaccountable inward irritation. “Why don’t you tell your Aunt Thalia so?”