with some satisfaction Mr. Worthington's appearance when he received her
answer. Her instinct told her that he had received his son's letter, and
that he had sent for her to insult her. By sending for her, indeed, he
had insulted her irrevocably, and that is why she trembled.

Poor Cynthia! her troubles came thick and fast upon her in those days.
When she reached home, there was the letter which Ephraim had left on the
table addressed in the familiar, upright handwriting, and when Cynthia
saw it, she caught her hand sharply at her breast, as if the pain there
had stopped the beating of her heart. Well it was for Bob's peace of mind
that he could not see her as she read it, and before she had come to the
end there were drops on the sheets where the purple ink had run. How
precious would have been those drops to him! He would never give her up.
No mandate or decree could separate them--nothing but death. And he was
happier now so he told her--than he had been for months: happy in the
thought that he was going out into the world to win bread for her, as
became a man. Even if he had not her to strive for, he saw now that such
was the only course for him. He could not conform.

It was a manly letter,--how manly Bob himself never knew. But Cynthia
knew, and she wept over it and even pressed it to her lips--for there
was no one to see. Yes, she loved him as she would not have believed it
possible to love, and she sat through the afternoon reading his words and
repeating them until it seemed that he were there by her side, speaking
them. They came, untrammelled and undefiled, from his heart into hers.

And now that he had quarrelled with his father for her sake, and was bent
with all the determination of his character upon making his own way in
the world, what was she to do? What was her duty? Not one letter of the
twoscore she had received (so she kept their count from day to day)--not
one had she answered. His faith had indeed been great. But she must
answer this: must write, too, on that subject of her dismissal, lest it
should be wrongly told him. He was rash in his anger, and fearless; this
she knew, and loved him for such qualities as he had.

She must stay in Brampton and do her work,--so much was clearly her duty,
although she longed to flee from it. And at last she sat down and wrote
to him. Some things are too sacred to be set forth on a printed page, and
this letter is one of those things. Try as she would, she cou