f there had been a card, Susan Merrill would
certainly have found it. There was no card. There was much pretended
speculation on the part of the Merrill girls as to the sender, sly
reference to Cynthia's heightened color, and several attempts to pin on
her dress a bunch of the flowers, and Susan declared that one of them
would look stunning in her hair. They were put on the dining-room table
in the centre of the wreath of holly, and under the mistletoe which hung
from the chandelier. Whether Cynthia surreptitiously stole one has never
been discovered.

So Christmas came and went: not altogether unhappily, deferring for a
day at least the knotty problems of life. Although Cynthia accepted the
present of the roses with such magnificent unconcern, and would not
make so much as a guess as to who sent them, Mr. Robert Worthington was
frequently in her thoughts. He had declared his intention of coming
to Mount Vernon Street as soon as the holidays ended, and had been
cordially invited by Susan to do so. Cynthia took the trouble to procure
a Harvard catalogue from the library, and discovered that he had many
holidays yet to spend. She determined to write another letter, which he
would find in his rooms when he returned. Just what terrible prohibitory
terms she was to employ in that letter Cynthia could not decide in a
moment, nor yet in a day, or a week. She went so far as to make several
drafts, some of which she destroyed for the fault of leniency, and
others for that of severity. What was she to say to him? She had
expended her arguments to no avail. She could wound him, indeed, and
at length made up her mind that this was the only resource left her,
although she would thereby wound herself more deeply. When she had
arrived at this decision, there remained still more than a week in which
to compose the letter.

On the morning after New Year's, when the family were assembled
around the breakfast table, Mrs. Merrill remarked that her husband was
neglecting a custom which had been his for many years.

"Didn't the newspaper come, Stephen?" she asked.

Mr. Merrill had read it.

"Read it!" repeated his wife, in surprise, "you haven't been down long
enough to read a column."

"It was full of trash," said Mr. Merrill, lightly, and began on his
usual jokes with the girls. But Mrs. Merrill was troubled. She thought
his jokes not as hearty as they were wont to be, and disquieting
surmises of business worries filled her mind. Th