ough he took care to mention her name
particularly at the door, she would not go down to entertain him: though
Susan implored and Jane appealed, she would not go down. Mr. Browne
called several times again, with the same result. Cynthia was
inexorable--she would have none of him. Then Susan forgave her. There was
no quarrel, indeed, but there was a reconciliation, which is the best
part of a quarrel. There were tears, of Susan's shedding; there was a
character-sketch of Mr. Browne, of Susan's drawing, and that gentleman
flitted lightly out of Susan's life.

Some ten days subsequent to this reconciliation Ellen, the parlor maid,
brought up a card to Cynthia's room. The card bore the name of Mr. Robert
Worthington. Cynthia stared at it, and bent it in her fingers, while
Ellen explained how the gentleman had begged that she might see him. To
tell the truth, Cynthia had wondered more than once why he had not come
before, and smiled when she thought of all the assurances of undying
devotion she had heard in Washington. After all, she reflected, why
should she not see him--once? He might give her news of Brampton and
Coniston. Thus willingly deceiving herself, she told Ellen that she would
go down: much to the girl's delight, for Cynthia was a favorite in the
house.

As she entered the parlor Mr. Worthington was standing in the window.
When he turned and saw her he started to come forward in his old
impetuous way, and stopped and looked at her in surprise. She herself did
not grasp the reason for this.

"Can it be possible," he said, "can it be possible that this is my friend
from the country?" And he took her hand with the greatest formality,
pressed it the least little bit, and released it. "How do you do, Miss
Wetherell? Do you remember me?"

"How do you do--Bob," she answered, laughing in spite of herself at his
banter. "You haven't changed, anyway."

"It was Mr. Worthington in Washington," said he. "Now it is 'Bob' and
'Miss Wetherell.' Rank patronage! How did you do it, Cynthia?"

"You are like all men," said Cynthia, "you look at the clothes, and not
the woman. They are not very fine clothes; but if they were much finer,
they wouldn't change me."

"Then it must be Miss Sadler."

"Miss Sadler would willingly change me--if she could," said Cynthia, a
little bitterly. "How did you find out I was at Miss Sadler's?"

"Morton Browne told me yesterday," said Bob. "I felt like punching his
head."

"What did he tel