want me."

"You know that that is not true, Bob," she faltered. His next words
brought her to her feet.

"Cynthia," he said, in a voice shaken by the intensity of his passion, "I
came because I love you better than all the world--because I always will
love you so. I came to protect you, and care for you whatever happens. I
did not mean to tell you so, now. But it cannot matter, Cynthia!"

He seized her, roughly indeed, in his arms, but his very roughness was a
proof of the intensity of his love. For an instant she lay palpitating
against him, and as long as he lives he will remember the first exquisite
touch of her firm but supple figure and the marvellous communion of her
lips. A current from the great store that was in her, pent up and all
unknown, ran through him, and then she had struggled out of his arms and
fled, leaving him standing alone in the parlor.

It is true that such things happen, and no man or woman may foretell the
day or the hour thereof. Cynthia fled up the stairs, miraculously
arriving unnoticed at her own room, and locked the door and flung herself
on the bed.

Tears came--tears of shame, of joy, of sorrow, of rejoicing, of regret;
tears that burned, and yet relieved her, tears that pained while they
comforted. Had she sinned beyond the pardon of heaven, or had she
committed a supreme act of right? One moment she gloried in it, and the
next upbraided herself bitterly. Her heart beat with tumult, and again
seemed to stop. Such, though the words but faintly describe them, were
her feelings, for thoughts were still to emerge out of chaos. Love comes
like a flame to few women, but so it came to Cynthia Wetherell, and
burned out for a while all reason.

Only for a while. Generations which had practised self-restraint were
strong in her--generations accustomed, too, to thinking out, so far as in
them lay, the logical consequences of their acts; generations ashamed of
these very instants when nature has chosen to take command. After a time
had passed, during which the world might have shuffled from its course,
Cynthia sat up in the darkness. How was she ever to face the light again?
Reason had returned.

So she sat for another space, and thought of what she had done--thought
with a surprising calmness now which astonished her. Then she thought of
what she would do, for there was an ordeal still to be gone through.
Although she shrank from it, she no longer lacked the courage to endure
it. Certain