study, where he spent more time than formerly. By these tokens it will be
perceived that Bob, too, had changed a little. And the sight of Cynthia
in Mrs. Merrill's parlor had set him to thinking in a very different
manner than the sight of her in Washington had affected him. Bob had
managed to shift the subject from Jethro, not without an effort, though
he had done it in that merry, careless manner which was so characteristic
of him. He had talked of many things,--his college life, his
friends,--and laughed at her questions about his freshman escapades. But
when at length, at twilight, he had risen to go, he had taken both her
hands and looked down into her face with a very different expression than
she had seen him wear before--a much more serious expression, which
puzzled her. It was not the look of a lover, nor yet that of a man who
imagines himself in love. With either of these her instinct would have
told her how to deal. It was more the look of a friend, with much of the
masculine spirit of protection in it.

"May I come to see you again?" he asked.

Gently she released her hands, and she did not answer at once. She went
to the window, and stared across the sloping street at the grilled
railing before the big house opposite, thinking. Her reason told her that
he should not come, but her spirit rebelled against that reason. It was a
pleasure to see him, so she freely admitted to herself. Why should she
not have that pleasure? If the truth be told, she had argued it all out
before, when she had wondered whether he would come. Mrs. Merrill, she
thought, would not object to his coming. But--there was the question she
had meant to ask him.

"Bob," she said, turning to him, "Bob, would your father want you to
come?"

It was growing dark, and she could scarcely see his face. He hesitated,
but he did not attempt to evade the question.

"No, he would not," he answered. And added, with a good deal of force and
dignity: "I am of age, and can choose my own friends. I am my own master.
If he knew you as I knew you, he would look at the matter in a different
light."

Cynthia felt that this was not quite true. She smiled a little sadly.

"I am afraid you don't know me very well, Bob." He was about to protest,
but she went on, bravely, "Is it because he has quarrelled with Uncle
Jethro?"

"Yes," said Bob. She was making it terribly hard for him, sparing indeed
neither herself nor him.

"If you come here to see me, it