e your wife."

"I do not know it," he exclaimed, interrupting her vehemently, "I will
not know it."

"Think," she said, "think! I must say what I, have to say, however it
hurts me. If it had not been for--for your father, those things never
would have been written. They were in his newspaper, and they express his
feelings toward--toward Uncle Jethro."

Once the words were out, she marvelled that she had found the courage to
pronounce them.

"Yes," he said, "yes, I know that, but listen--"

"Wait," she went on, "wait until I have finished. I am not speaking of
the pain I had when I read these things, I--I am not speaking of the
truth that may be in them--I have learned from them what I should have
known before, and felt, indeed, that your father will never consent
to--to a marriage between us."

"And if he does not," cried Bob, "if he does not, do you think that I
will abide by what he says, when my life's happiness depends upon you,
and my life's welfare? I know that you are a good woman, and a true
woman, that you will be the best wife any man could have. Though he is my
father, he shall not deprive me of my soul, and he shall not take my life
away from me."

As Cynthia listened she thought that never had words sounded sweeter than
these--no, and never would again. So she told herself as she let them run
into her heart to be stored among the treasures there. She believed in
his love--believed in it now with all her might. (Who, indeed, would
not?) She could not demean herself now by striving to belittle it or
doubt its continuance, as she had in Boston. He was young, yes; but he
would never be any older than this, could never love again like this. So
much was given her, ought she not to be content? Could she expect more?

She understood Isaac Worthington, now, as well as his son understood him.
She knew that, if she were to yield to Bob Worthington, his father would
disown and disinherit him. She looked ahead into the years as a woman
will, and allowed herself for the briefest of moments to wonder whether
any happiness could thrive in spite of the violence of that schism--any
happiness for him. She would be depriving him of his birthright, and it
may be that those who are born without birthrights often value them the
most. Cynthia saw these things, and more, for those who sit at the feet
of sorrow soon learn the world's ways. She saw herself pointed out as the
woman whose designs had beggared and ruined him in