Bob, "she goes to Coniston on Fridays. I'll drive
her out. Good-by, Father."

He flew out of the room, ran into Mrs. Holden, whom he astonished by
saluting on the cheek, and astonished even more by asking her to tell
Silas to drive his black horses to Gabriel Post's house--as the cottage
was still known in Brampton. And having hastily removed some of the
cinders, he flew out of the door and reached the park-like space in the
middle of Brampton Street. Then he tried to walk decorously, but it was
hard work. What if she should not be in?

The door and windows of the little house were open that balmy afternoon,
and the bees were buzzing among the flowers which Cynthia had planted on
either side of the step. Bob went up the path, and caught a glimpse of
her through the entry standing in the sitting room. She was, indeed,
waiting for the Coniston stage, and she did not see him. Shall I destroy
the mental image of the reader who has known her so long by trying
to tell what she looked like? Some heroines grow thin and worn by the
troubles which they are forced to go through. Cynthia was not this kind
of a heroine. She was neither tall nor short, and the dark blue gown
which she wore set off (so Bob thought) the curves of her figure to
perfection. Her face had become a little more grave--yes, and more
noble; and the eyes and mouth had an indescribable, womanly sweetness.

He stood for a moment outside the doorway gazing at her; hesitating to
desecrate that revery, which seemed to him to have a touch of sadness
in it. And then she turned her head, slowly, and saw him, and her lips
parted, and a startled look came into her eyes, but she did not move.
He came quickly into the room and stopped again, quivering from head
to foot with the passion which the sight of her never failed to unloose
within him. Still she did not speak, but her lip trembled, and the love
leaping in his eyes kindled a yearning in hers,--a yearning she was
powerless to resist. He may by that strange power have drawn her toward
him--he never knew. Neither of them could have given evidence on that
marvellous instant when the current bridged the space between them. He
could not say whether this woman whom he had seized by force before had
shown alike vitality in her surrender. He only knew that her arms were
woven about his neck, and that the kiss of which he had dreamed was
again on his lips, and that he felt once more her wonderful, supple body
pressed again