judiciary: could, indeed, do more--could own them even more
completely than Jethro Bass now owned them, and without effort. The
dividends would do the work: would canvass the counties and persuade this
man and that with sufficient eloquence. By such tokens it will be seen
that Isaac D. Worthington is destined to become great, though the
greatness will be akin to that possessed by those gentlemen who in past
ages had built castles across the highway between Venice and the North
Sea. All this was in store for Bob Worthington, if he could only be
brought to see it. These things would be given him, if he would but
confine his worship to the god of wealth.

We are running ahead, however, of Bob's reflections in Mr. Merrill's
parlor in Mount Vernon Street, and the ceremony of showing him the cities
of his world from Brampton hill was yet to be gone through. Bob knew his
father's plans only in a general way, but in the past week he had come to
know his father with a fair amount of thoroughness. If Isaac D.
Worthington had but chosen a worldly wife, he might have had a more
worldly son. As it was, Bob's thoughts were a little bitter when Cynthia
spoke of his father, and he tried to think instead what his mother would
have him do. He could not, indeed, speak of Mr. Worthington's
shortcomings as he understood them, but he answered Cynthia vigorously
enough--even if his words were not as serious as she desired.

"I tell you I am old enough to judge for myself, Cynthia," said he, "and
I intend to judge for myself. I don't pretend to be a paragon of virtue,
but I have a kind of a conscience which tells me when I am doing wrong,
if I listen to it. I have not always listened to it. It tells me I'm
doing right now, and I mean to listen to it."

Cynthia could not but think there was very little self-denial attached to
this. Men are not given largely to self-denial.

"It is easy enough to listen to your conscience when you think it impels
you to do that which you want to do, Bob," she answered, laughing at his
argument in spite of herself.

"Are you wicked?" he demanded abruptly.

"Why, no, I don't think I am," said Cynthia, taken aback. But she
corrected herself swiftly, perceiving his bent. "I should be doing wrong
to let you come here."

He ignored the qualification.

"Are you vain and frivolous?"

She remembered that she had looked in the glass before she had come down
to him, and bit her lip.

"Are you given over to idle