he future we
shall grow into the mutual respect and affection which our nearer
relationship will demand."

He rose, and took up his hat, and Cynthia rose too. There was something
very fine, he thought, about her carriage and expression as she stood in
front of him.

"There is my hand," he said,--"will you take it?"

"I will take it," Cynthia answered, "because you are Bob's father."

And then Mr. Worthington went away.

CHAPTER XX

I am able to cite one notable instance, at least, to disprove the saying
a part of which is written above, and I have yet to hear of a case in
which a gentleman ever hesitated a single instant on account of the first
letter of a lady's last name. I know, indeed, of an occasion when
locomotives could not go fast enough, when thirty miles an hour seemed a
snail's pace to a young main who sat by the open window of a train that
crept northward on a certain hazy September morning up the beautiful
valley of a broad river which we know.

It was after three o'clock before he caught sight of the familiar crest
of Farewell Mountain, and the train ran into Harwich. How glad he was to
see everybody there, whether he knew them or not! He came near hugging
the conductor of the Truro accommodation; who, needless to say, did not
ask him for a ticket, or even a pass. And then the young man went forward
and almost shook the arms off of the engineer and the fireman, and
climbed into the cab, and actually drove the engine himself as far as
Brampton, where it arrived somewhat ahead of schedule, having taken some
of the curves and bridges at a speed a little beyond the law. The
engineer was richer by five dollars, and the son of a railroad president
is a privileged character, anyway.

Yes, here was Brampton, and in spite of the haze the sun had never shone
so brightly on the terraced steeple of the meeting-house. He leaped out
of the cab almost before the engine had stopped, and beamed upon
everybody on the platform,--even upon Mr. Dodd, who chanced to be there.
In a twinkling the young man is in Mr. Sherman's hack, and Mr. Sherman
galloping his horse down Brampton Street, the young man with his head out
of the window, smiling; grinning would be a better word. Here are the
iron mastiffs, and they seem to be grinning, too. The young man flings
open the carriage door and leaps out, and the door is almost broken from
its hinges by the maple tree. He rushes up the steps and through the
hall, and into t