ob, "I'm afraid I did most of it. There was another fellow
that helped some and played the guitar. It was pretty bad," he added,
with a side glance at Cynthia, "but it was meant for a compliment."

"Oh," said she, "it was meant for a compliment, was it?"

"Of course," he answered, glad of the opportunity to turn his attention
entirely to her. "I was for slipping away right after supper, but my
father headed us off."

"Slipping away?" repeated Cynthia.

"You see, he had a kind of a reception and fireworks afterward. We didn't
get away till after nine, and then I thought I'd have a lecture when I
got home."

"Did you?" asked Cynthia.

"No," said Bob, "he didn't know where I'd been."

Cynthia felt the blood rush to her temples, but by habit and instinct she
knew when to restrain herself.

"Would it have made any difference to him where you had been?" she asked
calmly enough.

Bob had a presentiment that he was on dangerous ground. This new and
self-possessed Cynthia was an enigma to him--certainly a fascinating
enigma.

"My father world have thought I was a fool to go off serenading," he
answered, flushing. Bob did not like a lie; he knew that his father would
have been angry if he had heard he had gone to Coniston; he felt, in the
small of his back, that his father was angry mow, and guessed the reason.

She regarded him gravely as he spoke, and then her eyes left his face and
became fixed upon an object at the far end of the corridor. Bob turned in
time to see Janet Duncan swing on her heel and follow her mother up the
stairs. He struggled to find words to tide over what he felt was an
awkward moment.

"We've had a fine trip;" he said, "though I should much rather have
stayed at home. The West is a wonderful country, with its canons and
mountains and great stretches of plain. My father met us in Chicago, and
we came here. I don't know why, because Washington's dead at this time of
the year. I suppose it must be on account of politics." Looking at Jethro
with a sudden inspiration, "I hadn't thought of that."

Jethro had betrayed no interest in the conversation. He was seated, as
usual, on the small of his back. But he saw a young man of short stature,
with a freckled face and close-cropped, curly red hair, come into the
corridor by another entrance; he saw Isaac D. Worthington draw him aside
and speak to him, and he saw the young man coming towards them.

"How do you do, Miss Wetherell?" cried the young m