She paused for a moment in her own room, to smooth her tumbled hair, and
try to identify herself in her glass. Then she went into the
sitting-room, where she found her father pulled up to the table, with his
hat on, and poring over a sheet of hieroglyphics, which represented the
usual evening with planchette.

"Have you been to help Jackson up?" she asked.

"Well, I wanted to, but he wouldn't hear of it. He's feelin' ever so much
better to-night, and he wanted to go alone. I just come in."

"Yes, you've got your hat on yet."

Whitwell put his hand up and found that his daughter was right. He
laughed, and said: "I guess I must 'a' forgot it. We've had the most
interestin' season with plantchette that I guess we've about ever had.
She's said something here--"

"Well, never mind; I've got something more important to say than
plantchette has," said Cynthia, and she pulled the sheet away from under
her father's eyes.

This made him look up at her. "Why, what's happened?"

"Nothing. Jeff Durgin has asked me to marry him."

"He has!" The New England training is not such as to fit people for the
expression of strong emotion, and the best that Whitwell found himself
able to do in view of the fact was to pucker his mouth for a whistle
which did not come.

"Yes--this afternoon," said Cynthia, lifelessly. The tension of her
nerves relaxed in a languor which was evident even to her father, though
his eyes still wandered to the sheet she had taken from him.

"Well, you don't seem over and above excited about it. Did--did
your--What did you say--"

"How should I know what I said? What do you think of it, father?"

"I don't know as I ever give the subject much attention," said the
philosopher. "I always meant to take it out of him, somehow, if he got to
playin' the fool."

"Then you wanted I should accept him?"

"What difference 'd it make what I wanted? That what you done?"

"Yes, I've accepted him," said the girl, with a sigh. "I guess I've
always expected to."

"Well, I thought likely it would come to that, myself. All I can say,
Cynthy, is 't he's a lucky feller."

Whitwell leaned back, bracing his knees against the table, which was one
of his philosophic poses. "I have sometimes believed that Jeff Durgin was
goin' to turn out a blackguard. He's got it in him. He's as like his
gran'father as two peas, and he was an old devil. But you got to account
in all these here heredity cases for counteractin' influences