t she was to say, for a
trace of a smile was about her mouth as she gazed at the coals. "You will
get over this. You are not yet out of college, and many such fancies
happen there."

For the moment he was incapable of speaking, incapable of finding an
answer sufficiently emphatic. How was he to tell her of the rocks upon
which his love was built?

How was he to declare that the very perils which threatened her had made
a man of him, with all of a man's yearning to share these perils and
shield her from them? How was he to speak at all of those perils? He did
not declaim, yet when he spoke, an enduring sincerity which she could not
deny was in his voice.

"You know in your heart that what you say is not true, Cynthia. Whatever
happens, I shall always love you."

Whatever happens: She shuddered at the words, reminding her as they did
of all her vague misgivings and fears.

"Whatever happens!" she found herself repeating them involuntarily.

"Yes, whatever happens I will love you truly and faithfully. I will never
desert you, never deny you, as long as I live. And you love me, Cynthia,"
he cried, "you love me, I know it."

"No, no," she answered, her breath coming fast. He was on his feet now,
dangerously near her, and she rose swiftly to avoid him.

She turned her head, that he might not read the denial in her eyes; and
yet had to look at him again, for he was coming toward her quickly.
"Don't touch me," she said, "don't touch me."

He stopped, and looked at her so pitifully that she could scarce keep
back her tears.

"You do love me," he repeated.

So they stood for a moment, while Cynthia made a supreme effort to speak
calmly.

"Listen, Bob," she said at last, "if you ever wish to see me again, you
must do as I say. You must write to your father, and tell him what you
have done and--and what you wish to do. You may come to me and tell me
his answer, but you must not come to me before." She would have said
more, but her strength was almost gone. Yes, and more would have implied
a promise or a concession. She would not bind herself even by a hint. But
of this she was sure: that she would not be the means of wrecking his
opportunities. "And now--you must go."

He stayed where he was, though his blood leaped within him, his
admiration and respect for the girl outran his passion. Robert
Worthington was a gentleman.

"I will do as you say, Cynthia," he answered, "but I am doing it for you.
Whatever my fathe