ies
did. He would not have all his fortune to make, and his father's
business was well established. The sons would take it. The two daughters
were well married. What more could he ask for Cynthia? She was not so
young now and would know her own mind.

Yet it gave his heart a sharp, mysterious wrench, a longing for what he
was putting away, the essence of the solemn ideals of love that run
through the intricate meshes of the human soul. He knew that he loved
her, that he wanted her for his very own, and his conscience told him it
was not right. Of all her admirers he liked this one the best. Under
other circumstances he would have considered him an admirable young man.

Saltonstall dropped in now and then, not too often. He did not mean to
startle any one with his purpose, but to let it grow gradually. Still,
at the last assembly of the season, his attentions were somewhat
pronounced. It was partly her doings, she was sheltering herself from
other rather warm indications.

A few days later she went over to Polly Loring's with her work. Polly's
bag had somehow gone wrong. Cynthia had to cut the thread and ravel out
a round. The baby was to be admired as well as the chair seat Polly had
begun in worsted work, which was the new accomplishment. And they talked
over various matters: who had new gowns, new lovers, and new babies. But
every time she came almost to the subject so near her heart, Cynthia
made an elusive detour. Then she ventured out straight with her
question.

"Cynthia, are you going to take Ed Saltonstall?"

Cynthia's face was scarlet.

"He hasn't asked me, he hasn't even asked Cousin Chilian," but her voice
was not quite steady.

"How do you know? It was talked of at the assembly--the two men were a
good deal together. And if you don't mean anything, Cynthia, you'll get
yourself gossiped about, and you'll spoil some lives," declared Polly
spiritedly. This thing had been seething in her mind, and she was going
to have it out at the risk of breaking friendship.

"I don't want to spoil any one's life. And I've never really kept
company with any one."

The keeping company was the great test. When the young man came steady
one night in the week, to Sunday tea, and went to church with the girl
alone, the matter was as good as declared.

"But--well, I don't know how you've done it, but they hang about you and
it does upset them. First it's one, then it's another. You ought to
know. You ought to settle up