outside.

She came in a soft, white gown that clung to her virginal figure. The
swelling-out period had passed, even sleeves had collapsed to a small
puff, and for house wear the arms and neck were left bare.

The book was a Greek play. The letters danced before her eyes as she
stood there. He looked off the book, but not up at her.

"Cousin Chilian, I want to tell you"--her voice had the peculiar
softness that one uses to try to cover the hurt one cannot help
giving--"Mr. Saltonstall was here last evening. He has asked me to marry
him."

It seemed to her the silence lasted moments. Then he said in an
incurious tone, "Well?"

"I--will you be angry or disappointed when I confess that I cannot, that
I do not love him."

"Oh, Cynthia, child; what do you know about love?" he said impatiently.

"Enough to know that it would be wrong to take a man's love and give him
nothing in return." Now her voice was steady, convincing.

He had a sudden thought. Like a vision the stalwart form of the young
sailor rose before him. He had carried admiration, yes, love in his
eyes. What if he had carried more than that away?

"Cynthia, is there some one else, some one you _could_ love----"

"There is some one else." Her tone was very low, but brave. That
admission would settle the matter.

"Are you to wait three years for him?"

"For whom?" in surprise.

Then he glanced up. Her face, that had been lily-white, was flushed from
brow to neck. What was there in the beautiful, entreating eyes?

"Cynthia?" All his firmness gave way.

His arm stole softly around her, drew her a trifle down. "Tell me! Tell
me!" he cried, yet he had no idea he was asking her to lay her heart
bare. There was still the boy Anthony.

"Cousin Chilian, if a woman loved very much, would it be a shame to her
if, unasked, she----"

Her head sank down on his shoulder. He felt the warm, throbbing breath
on his cheek. He drew her closer. Did the slim, palpitating body betray
its secret?

"Oh, Cynthia, child, the most precious thing in all the world to me,
tell me that I will not have to give you to another, that I may keep you
to myself. For I cannot comprehend how so great a joy could come to me.
And whether I would have the right to take your sweet young life, that
should be replete with the joys of youth, with the gladness that is its
proper birthright."

"If I gave it to you? If I could never have given it to any other?"

He drew her down closer,