he said. She determined to say
no more until she had consulted with her husband, but she knew that he
would agree with Neal.

"And now where are the girls?" demanded Neal, with a view to changing
the subject. "I want to see them."

His sister called them in from the next room, and they had a merry
meeting.

"How funny it is," thought Cynthia. "The last time I saw Neal we were
like two drenched water-rats on the river at home. Whoever thought we
should meet away off here in a strange house and a strange city, where
all is so different? I believe things are really going to come right
after all, and that day I was perfectly certain they never would. Here
is Edith well and strong when I thought she was surely going to die, and
mamma has seen Neal and seems as happy as a lark, and Neal himself looks
fine. Somehow he seems more like a man. I'm proud of him."

All of which train of thought took place while Cynthia was indulging in
an unwonted fit of silence.

Neal soon suggested that they should take a walk, and the girls acceding
to it, the three set forth, Neal feeling extremely proud of the two
pretty maidens with whom he was walking.

"Philadelphia has an awfully forlorn look in summer," he said, with the
air of having been born and brought up a Philadelphian. "You see,
everybody goes out of town, and the houses are all boarded up. You're
here at just the wrong time."

"We are certainly here at a very hot time," remarked Edith, as she
raised her parasol.

"They call it very cool for this time of year," said Neal. "You forget
you are farther south than old Massachusetts. It is a dandy place, I
think, though I wouldn't mind knowing a few people that are not
Friends."

"How can you know people unless they are friends?" asked Cynthia, gayly.

"Cynth, what a pun!" said Neal, with an attempt at a frown. "I say,
though, it's awfully jolly to have you two girls here, even if Cynthia
does keep at her old tricks and make very poor puns. How long are you
going to stay?"

"As long as we're bidden, I suppose," returned Cynthia, with one of her
well-known little skips, as they set foot on Walnut Street Bridge.

It was six o'clock, but being June the sun was still high above the
horizon. A gentle breeze came off the river, and the afternoon light
threw a soft radiance over the masts of the vessels which lay at anchor
at the wharves, and the spires and chimneys of the town.

They wandered through the pretty streets of Wes