into
the sitting room.

Perhaps he knew, vaguely, why she had not followed him at once. He had
grown calmer himself, calmer with that desperation which comes to a man
of his type when his soul and body are burning with desire for a woman.
He knew that he would have to fight for her with herself. He knew now
that she was too strong in her position to be carried by storm, and the
interval had given him time to collect himself. He did not dare at first
to look up from the logs, for fear he should forget himself and be
defeated instantly.

"I have been to Coniston, Cynthia," he said.

"Yes."

"I have been to Coniston this morning, and I have seen Mr. Bass, and I
have told him that I love you, and that I will never give you up. I told
you so in Boston, Cynthia," he said; "I knew that this this trouble would
come to you. I would have given my life to have saved you from it--from
the least part of it. I would have given my life to have been able to say
'it shall not touch you.' I saw it flowing in like a great sea between
you and me, and yet I could not tell you of it. I could not prepare you
for it. I could only tell you that I would never give you up, and I can
only repeat that now."

"You must, Bob," she answered, in a voice so low that it was almost a
whisper; "you must give me up."

"I would not," he said, "I would not if the words were written on all the
rocks of Coniston Mountain. I love you."

"Hush," she said gently. "I have to say some things to you. They will be
very hard to say, but you must listen to them."

"I will listen," he said doggedly; "but they will not affect my
determination."

"I am sure you do not wish to drive me away from Brampton," she
continued, in the same low voice, "when I have found a place to earn my
living near-near Uncle Jethro."

These words told him all he had suspected--almost as much as though he
had been present at the scene in the tannery shed in Coniston. She knew
now the life of Jethro Bass, but he was still "Uncle Jethro" to her. It
was even as Bob had supposed,--that her affection once given could not be
taken away.

"Cynthia," he said, "I would not by an act or a word annoy or trouble
you. If you bade me, I would go to the other side of the world to-morrow.
You must know that. But I should come back again. You must know, that,
too. I should come back again for you."

"Bob," she said again, and her voice faltered a very little now, "you
must know that I can never b