sked her in a manly fashion. And suddenly a
great white light shot up in her heart, and loving one man she knew she
had no right to deceive another, to live a deception all her life long,
to cheat him--yes, it was that. Better a hundred times to live out her
flawed life alone.

"Oh, I cannot," she murmured. "I--I"--she choked down the strangling
sob.

"My little darling, give me the opportunity to teach you what love
really is. You do not know."

CHAPTER XVII

THE FLOWERING OF THE SOUL

Cynthia had said coldly that she did not wish to marry at present,
perhaps never. "I have been trying to love you to--to please some one
else, and it is a compliment for you to ask me. But any woman ought to
be sure before she makes a life-long promise. I must be honest--with
you, with myself."

Something in the solemn tone awed him. He had not been looking at the
serious side of love. She was pretty, bright, and winsome, with a good
deal of Puritan simplicity, a great power of enjoyment and difficult to
win. He liked to do the winning himself. He liked to find some new
qualities in girls, and Cynthia, with all her daintiness, had many sides
that surprised one. She had been brought up by a man--that made the
difference.

"We will wait a little," he said. "Talk to your cousin about it. I think
it will all come right. You are the first woman I ever desired to marry,
and I have been fond of girls, too."

That would have flattered some women. She said good-night in a strained,
breathless tone, and vanished through the door. He sat and thought.
There was no other lover, he was quite sure.

She went to bed at once. She did not cry, she was somehow stunned at
this revelation about herself, for she had resolved to accept him and
this sudden protest told her that it was quite impossible. If Cousin
Chilian was disappointed, if he was tired of her, there was a warm
welcome in Boston.

She did not sleep much. Rachel noted her heavy eyes, and the expression
as if she might be secretly upbraiding fate. What if Mr. Saltonstall had
been trifling?

Chilian went up to his study. He felt languid, he nearly always did now.
He took a book and sat by the open window. Two tall trees hid the
prospect, except a space of blooming garden. To-day a small outlook
pleased him, for his life was to be made narrower. She would come and
tell him--shut the golden gate forever. He could not, would not, enter
their paradise. Let him keep quite on the