e Jethro," admire his great
strength and shrewdness, and declare that the men he had outwitted had
richly deserved it. But Jethro Bass as the ward of Cynthia Wetherell was
quite another thing.

It was not only that Cynthia had suddenly and inevitably become a lady.
That would not have mattered, for such as she would have borne Coniston
and the life of Coniston cheerfully. But Bob reflected, as he walked
back to his rooms in the dark through the snow-laden streets, that
Cynthia, young though she might be, possessed principles from which no
love would sway her a hair's breadth. How, indeed, was she to live with
Jethro once her eyes were opened?

The thought made him angry, but returned to him persistently during the
days that followed,--in the lecture room, in the gymnasium, in his own
study, where he spent more time than formerly. By these tokens it will
be perceived that Bob, too, had changed a little. And the sight of
Cynthia in Mrs. Merrill's parlor had set him to thinking in a very
different manner than the sight of her in Washington had affected him.
Bob had managed to shift the subject from Jethro, not without an effort,
though he had done it in that merry, careless manner which was so
characteristic of him. He had talked of many things,--his college life,
his friends,--and laughed at her questions about his freshman escapades.
But when at length, at twilight, he had risen to go, he had taken both
her hands and looked down into her face with a very different expression
than she had seen him wear before--a much more serious expression, which
puzzled her. It was not the look of a lover, nor yet that of a man who
imagines himself in love. With either of these her instinct would have
told her how to deal. It was more the look of a friend, with much of the
masculine spirit of protection in it.

"May I come to see you again?" he asked.

Gently she released her hands, and she did not answer at once. She
went to the window, and stared across the sloping street at the grilled
railing before the big house opposite, thinking. Her reason told her
that he should not come, but her spirit rebelled against that reason. It
was a pleasure to see him, so she freely admitted to herself. Why should
she not have that pleasure? If the truth be told, she had argued it all
out before, when she had wondered whether he would come. Mrs. Merrill,
she thought, would not object to his coming. But--there was the question
she had meant to ask