parents who had other plans.

Cynthia was, of course, foolish. She would not look ahead, yet there
was the mirage in the sky when she allowed herself to dream. It can
truthfully be said that she was not in love with Bob Worthington. She
felt, rather than knew, that if love came to her the feeling she had for
Jethro Bass--strong though that was--would be as nothing to it. The girl
felt the intensity of her nature, and shrank from it when her thoughts
ran that way, for it frightened her.

"Mrs. Merrill" she said, a few days later, when she found herself alone
with that lady, "you once told me you would have no objection if a
friend came to see me here."

"None whatever, my dear," answered Mrs. Merrill. "I have asked you to
have your friends here."

Mrs. Merrill knew that a young man had called on Cynthia. The girls had
discussed the event excitedly, had teased Cynthia about it; they had
discovered, moreover, that the young man had not been a tiller of the
soil or a clerk in a country store. Ellen, with the enthusiasm of her
race, had painted him in glowing colors--but she had neglected to read
the name on his card.

"Bob Worthington came to see me last week, and he wants to come again.
He lives in Brampton," Cynthia explained, "and is at Harvard College."

Mrs. Merrill was decidedly surprised. She went on with her sewing,
however, and did not betray the fact. She knew of Dudley Worthington as
one of the richest and most important men in his state; she had heard
her husband speak of him often; but she had never meddled with politics
and railroad affairs.

"By all means let him come, Cynthia," she replied.

When Mr. Merrill got home that evening she spoke of the matter to him.

"Cynthia is a strange character," she said. "Sometimes I can't
understand her--she seems so much older than our girls, Stephen. Think
of her keeping this to herself for four days!"

Mr. Merrill laughed, but he went off to a little writing room he had
and sat for a long time looking into the glowing coals. Then he laughed
again. Mr. Merrill was a philosopher. After all, he could not forbid
Dudley Worthington's son coming to his house, nor did he wish to.

That same evening Cynthia wrote a letter and posted it. She found it a
very difficult letter to write, and almost as difficult to drop into the
mail-box. She reflected that the holidays were close at hand, and then
he would go to Brampton and forget, even as he had forgotten before. And