"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 the library, where the first citizen and his
seneschal are sitting.

"Hello, Father, you see I didn't waste any time," he cried; grasping his
father's hand in a grip that made Mr. Worthington wince. "Well, you
are a trump, after all. We're both a little hot-headed, I gu