ot taken into account that which he
might say to him. Bob had, indeed, thought of nothing but Cynthia,
and of the blow that had fallen upon her. He had tried to realize the
multiple phases of the situation which confronted him. Here was the man
who, by the conduct of his life, had caused the blow; he, too, was her
benefactor; and again, this same man was engaged in the bitterest
of conflicts with his father, Isaac D. Worthington, and it was this
conflict which had precipitated that blow. Bob could not have guessed,
by looking at Jethro Bass, how great was the sorrow which had fallen
upon him. But Bob knew that Jethro hated his father, must hate him now,
because of Cynthia, with a hatred given to few men to feel. He thought
that Jethro would crush Mr. Worthington and ruin him if he could; and
Bob believed he could.

What was he to say? He did not fear Jethro, for Bob Worthington had
courage enough; but these things were running in his mind, and he felt
the power of the man before him, as all men did. Bob went to the window
and came back again. He knew that he must speak.

"Mr. Bass," he said at last, "did Cynthia ever mention me to you?"

"No," said Jethro.

"Mr. Bass, I love her. I have told her so, and I have asked her to be my
wife."

There was no need, indeed, to have told Jethro this. The shock of that
revelation had come to him when he had seen the trotters, had been
confirmed when the young man had stood before the portrait. Jethro's
face might have twitched when Bob stood there with his back to him.

Jethro could not speak. Once more there had come to him a moment when
he would not trust his voice to ask a question. He dreaded the answer,
though none might have surmised this. He knew Cynthia. He knew that,
when she had given her heart, it was for all time. He dreaded the
answer; because it might mean that her sorrow was doubled.

"I believe," Bob continued painfully, seeing that Jethro would say
nothing, "I believe that Cynthia loves me. I should not dare to say it
or to hope it, without reason. She has not said so, but--" the words
were very hard for him, yet he stuck manfully to the truth; "but she
told me to write to my father and let him know what I had done, and not
to come back to her until I had his answer. This," he added, wondering
that a man could listen to such a thing without a sign, "this was
before--before she had any idea of coming home."

Yes, Cynthia, did love him. There was no doubt abo