her father had
given her when he died. The locket had a gold chain with a clasp, and
Cynthia wore it hidden beneath her gown-too intimate a possession to be
shown.

There was still another and very mysterious present, this being a huge
box of roses, addressed to Miss Cynthia Wetherell, which was delivered on
Christmas morning. If there had been a card, Susan Merrill would
certainly have found it. There was no card. There was much pretended
speculation on the part of the Merrill girls as to the sender, sly
reference to Cynthia's heightened color, and several attempts to pin on
her dress a bunch of the flowers, and Susan declared that one of them
would look stunning in her hair. They were put on the dining-room table
in the centre of the wreath of holly, and under the mistletoe which hung
from the chandelier. Whether Cynthia surreptitiously stole one has never
been discovered.

So Christmas came and went: not altogether unhappily, deferring for a day
at least the knotty problems of life. Although Cynthia accepted the
present of the roses with such magnificent unconcern, and would not make
so much as a guess as to who sent them, Mr. Robert Worthington was
frequently in her thoughts. He had declared his intention of coming to
Mount Vernon Street as soon as the holidays ended, and had been cordially
invited by Susan to do so. Cynthia took the trouble to procure a Harvard
catalogue from the library, and discovered that he had many holidays yet
to spend. She determined to write another letter, which he would find in
his rooms when he returned. Just what terrible prohibitory terms she was
to employ in that letter Cynthia could not decide in a moment, nor yet in
a day, or a week. She went so far as to make several drafts, some of
which she destroyed for the fault of leniency, and others for that of
severity. What was she to say to him? She had expended her arguments to
no avail. She could wound him, indeed, and at length made up her mind
that this was the only resource left her, although she would thereby
wound herself more deeply. When she had arrived at this decision, there
remained still more than a week in which to compose the letter.

On the morning after New Year's, when the family were assembled around
the breakfast table, Mrs. Merrill remarked that her husband was
neglecting a custom which had been his for many years.

"Didn't the newspaper come, Stephen?" she asked.

Mr. Merrill had read it.

"Read it!" repeated