nd the courage to
pronounce them.

"Yes," he said, "yes, I know that, but listen--"

"Wait," she went on, "wait until I have finished. I am not speaking of
the pain I had when I read these things, I--I am not speaking of the
truth that may be in them--I have learned from them what I should have
known before, and felt, indeed, that your father will never consent
to--to a marriage between us."

"And if he does not," cried Bob, "if he does not, do you think that I
will abide by what he says, when my life's happiness depends upon you,
and my life's welfare? I know that you are a good woman, and a true
woman, that you will be the best wife any man could have. Though he is
my father, he shall not deprive me of my soul, and he shall not take my
life away from me."

As Cynthia listened she thought that never had words sounded sweeter
than these--no, and never would again. So she told herself as she let
them run into her heart to be stored among the treasures there. She
believed in his love--believed in it now with all her might. (Who,
indeed, would not?) She could not demean herself now by striving to
belittle it or doubt its continuance, as she had in Boston. He was
young, yes; but he would never be any older than this, could never love
again like this. So much was given her, ought she not to be content?
Could she expect more?

She understood Isaac Worthington, now, as well as his son understood
him. She knew that, if she were to yield to Bob Worthington, his father
would disown and disinherit him. She looked ahead into the years as a
woman will, and allowed herself for the briefest of moments to wonder
whether any happiness could thrive in spite of the violence of that
schism--any happiness for him. She would be depriving him of his
birthright, and it may be that those who are born without birthrights
often value them the most. Cynthia saw these things, and more, for
those who sit at the feet of sorrow soon learn the world's ways. She saw
herself pointed out as the woman whose designs had beggared and ruined
him in his youth, and (agonizing and revolting thought!) the name of one
would be spoken from whom she had learned such craft. Lest he see the
scalding tears in her eyes, she turned away and conquered them. What
could she do? Where should she hide her love that it might not be seen
of men? And how, in truth, could she tell him these things?

"Cynthia," he went on, seeing that she did not answer, and taking heart,