o the air between some of his remarks. Hubert listened and
seemed to assent. His head was bowed, his arms were folded across his
chest; he looked--Cynthia could not help the thought--like a prisoner
receiving sentence, a penitent before his judge. Westwood turned to him
at last, as if awaiting an answer--the moonlight was on his face, and
showed it to be grave and anxious, but unmistakably kind. Hubert raised
his head and made some answer; and then--Cynthia's heart began to beat
very fast indeed--her father held out his hand. The two men grasped each
other's hands warmly and silently for a moment, then both turned away.
Westwood took out a great red handkerchief and blew his nose vehemently;
Hubert leaned for a moment against the balustrade and put his hand
across his eyes. Cynthia's own eyes swam in sympathetic tears as she
strove to imagine what had been said. In that moment her love for Hubert
was almost less than her love for her father--the man who, in spite of
lawless instincts, faulty training, great misfortunes and mistakes, had
a nature that was large enough and grand enough to know how to forgive.

Her eyes were so blinded with tears that she saw but indistinctly that
her father was coming across the piazza to the long open window by which
she sat. She drew herself back a little, so as to be out of the range of
vision of the Colonel and Mr. MacPhail. She knew that the crisis of her
fate was come.

"Cynthia, my dear," said her father's homely ragged voice--how dear it
had grown, she felt that she had never known till now--"here's a
gentleman wants to have a word with you. And he has my good wishes and
my friendship, dearie; and that's a thing that I thought you'd like to
know. He calls it my forgiveness; but we know--we understand--it's all
the same. I'll leave him with you, my beauty, and you can say to each
other what you please." And then he kissed her very tenderly and turned
away.

She felt that Hubert had followed him, and had stepped into the room;
but she could not raise her eyes.

She was obliged to see him however when he knelt down before her, and
put his clasped hands very gently upon her knee.

"Cynthia," said his voice--the other voice that she loved to hear--"your
father says that he has forgiven me. Can you forgive?"

She put her hand upon his, and a great tear fell down her cheeks.

"I have nothing to urge in my defence," he said. "If you like to punish
me--to send me away from you for e