'm here now," he said, "what's the good of going away? I might as well
stay the rest of the afternoon."

"You will find a photograph album on the table," said Cynthia, "with
pictures of all the Merrill family and their friends and relations."

In spite of the threat this remark conveyed, he could not help laughing
at it. Mrs. Merrill in her sitting room heard the laugh, and felt that
she would like Bob Worthington.

"It's a heavy album, Cynthia," he said; "perhaps you would hold up one
side of it."

It was Cynthia's turn to laugh. She could not decide whether he were a
man or a boy. Sometimes, she had to admit, he was very much of a man.

"Where are you going?" he cried.

"Upstairs, of course," she answered.

This was really alarming. But fate thrust a final weapon into his hands.

"All right," said he, "I'll look at the album. What time does Mr. Merrill
get home?"

"About six," answered Cynthia. "Why?"

"When he comes," said Bob, "I shall put on my most disconsolate
expression. He'll ask me what I'm doing, and I'll tell him you went
upstairs at half-past four and haven't come down. He'll sympathize, I'll
bet anything."

Whether Bob were really capable of doing this, Cynthia could not tell.
She believed he was. Perhaps she really did not intend to go upstairs
just then. To his intense relief she seated herself on a straight-backed
chair near the door, although she had the air of being about to get up
again at any minute. It was not a surrender, not at all--but a parley, at
least.

"I really want to talk to you seriously, Bob," she said, and her voice
was serious. "I like you very much--I always have--and I want you to
listen seriously. All of us have friends. Some people--you, for
instance--have a great many. We have but one father." Her voice failed a
little at the word. "No friend can ever be the same to you as your
father, and no friendship can make up what his displeasure will cost you.
I do not mean to say that I shan't always be your friend, for I shall
be."

Young men seldom arrive at maturity by gradual steps--something sets them
thinking, a week passes, and suddenly the world has a different aspect.
Bob had thought much of his father during that week, and had considered
their relationship very carefully. He had a few precious memories of his
mother before she had been laid to rest under that hideous and
pretentious monument in the Brampton hill cemetery. How unlike her was
that monument! Even a