With a sigh, Cynthia flung herself down, and tossed off her hat.
The sunlight, piercing through the branches, turned the auburn of
her hair to quivering gold.
"Mr. Hastings--you are always so kind, and you know such a lot."
It struck me at this moment that Cynthia was really a very
charming girl! Much more charming than Mary, who never said
things of that kind.
"Well?" I asked benignantly, as she hesitated.
"I want to ask your advice. What shall I do?"
"Do?"
"Yes. You see, Aunt Emily always told me I should be provided
for. I suppose she forgot, or didn't think she was likely to
die--anyway, I am _not_ provided for! And I don't know what to do.
Do you think I ought to go away from here at once?"
"Good heavens, no! They don't want to part with you, I'm sure."
Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass with her tiny
hands. Then she said: "Mrs. Cavendish does. She hates me."
"Hates you?" I cried, astonished.
Cynthia nodded.
"Yes. I don't know why, but she can't bear me; and _he_ can't,
either.
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