s manner of laying his
hat, bottom up, on the table, and of unbuttoning his coat, subtly
indicated the honor which he was conferring upon the place. And he eyed
Cynthia, standing before him in the lamplight, with a modification of the
hawk-like look which was meant to be at once condescending and
conciliatory. He did not imprint a kiss upon her brow, as some
prospective fathers-in-law would have done. But his eyes, perhaps
involuntarily, paid a tribute to her personal appearance which heightened
her color. She might not, after all, be such a discredit to the
Worthington family.

"Won't you sit down?" she asked.

"Thank you, Cynthia," he said; "I hope I may now be allowed to call you
Cynthia?"

She did not answer him, but sat down herself, and he followed her
example; with his eyes still upon her.

"You have doubtless received my letter," began Mr. Worthington. "I only
arrived in Brampton an hour ago, but I thought it best to come to you at
once, under the circumstances."

"Yes," replied Cynthia, "I received the letter."

"I am glad," said Mr. Worthington. He was beginning to be a little taken
aback by her calmness and her apparent absence of joy. It was scarcely
the way in which a school-teacher should receive the advances of the
first citizen, come to give a gracious consent to her marriage with his
son. Had he known it, Cynthia was anything but calm. "I am glad," he
said, "because I took pains to explain the exact situation in that
letter, and to set forth my own sentiments. I hope you understood them."

"Yes, I understood them," said Cynthia, in a low tone.

This was enigmatical, to say the least. But Mr. Worthington had come with
such praiseworthy intentions that he was disposed to believe that the
girl was overwhelmed by the good fortune which had suddenly overtaken
her. He was therefore disposed to be a little conciliatory.

"My conduct may have appeared harsh to you," he continued. "I will not
deny that I opposed the matter at first. Robert was still in college, and
he has a generous, impressionable nature which he inherits from his poor
mother--the kind of nature likely to commit a rash act which would ruin
his career. I have since become convinced that he has--ahem--inherited
likewise a determination of purpose and an ability to get on in the world
which I confess I had underestimated. My friend, Mr. Broke, has written
me a letter about him, and tells me that he has already promoted him."

"Yes," sa