lingness of the Whitwells to let
Durgin occupy their house upon any terms, for any purpose, and a
lingering grudge that Cynthia should have asked help of any one but
himself, even from a motive of delicacy.

In the evening he went out to see the girl at the house of Mrs.
Fredericks, whom he found living in the Port. They had a first moment of
intolerable shyness on her part. He had been afraid to see her, with the
jealousy for her dignity he always felt, lest she should look as if she
had been unhappy about Durgin. But he found her looking, not only
very well, but very happy and full of peace, as soon as that moment of
shyness passed. It seemed to Westover as if she had begun to live on new
terms, and that a harassing element, which had always been in it, had
gone out of her life, and in its absence she was beginning to rejoice
in a lasting repose. He found himself rejoicing with her, and he found
himself on simpler and franker terms with her than ever before. Neither
of them spoke of Jeff, or made any approach to mention him, and Westover
believed that this was not from a morbid feeling in her, but from a
final and enduring indifference.

He saw her alone, for Mrs. Fredericks and her daughter had gone into
town to a concert, which he made her confess she would have gone to
herself if it had not been that her father said he was coming out to see
her. She would not let him joke about the sacrifice he pretended she had
made; he had a certain pain in fancying that his visit was the highest
and finest favor that life could do her. She told him of the ambition
she had that she might get a school somewhere in the neighborhood of
Boston, and then find something for her brother to do, while he began
his studies in the Theological School at Harvard. Frank was still at
Lovewell, it seemed.

At the end of the long call he made, he said, abruptly, when he had
risen to go, "I should like to paint you."

"Who? Me?" she cried, as if it were the most incredible thing, while a
glad color rushed over her face.

"Yes. While you're waiting to get your school, couldn't you come in with
your father, now and then, and sit for me?"

"What's he want me to come fer?" Whitwell demanded, when the plan was
laid before him. He was giving his unlimited leisure to the exploration
of Boston, and his tone expressed something of the injury, which he also
put into words, as a sole objection to the proposed interruption. "Can't
you go alone, Cynthy?