he did come, she wouldn't see him. Ellen had
received her orders.

At four o'clock the doorbell rang, and shortly thereafter Ellen appeared,
simpering and apologetic enough, with a card. She had taken the trouble
to read it this time. Cynthia was angry, or thought she was, and her
cheeks were very red.

"I told you to excuse me, Ellen. Why did you let him in?"

"Miss Cynthia, darlin'," said Ellen, "if it was made of flint I was,
wouldn't he bring the tears out of me with his wheedlin' an' coaxin'? An'
him such a fine young gintleman! And whin he took to commandin' like,
sure I couldn't say no to him at all at all. 'Take the card to her,
Ellen,' he says--didn't he know me name!--'an' if she says she won't see
me, thin I won't trouble her more.' Thim were his words, Miss."

There he was before the fire, his feet slightly apart and his hands in
his pockets, waiting for her. She got a glimpse of him standing thus, as
she came down the stairs. It was not the attitude of a culprit. Nor did
he bear the faintest resemblance to a culprit as he came up to her in the
doorway. The chief recollection she carried away of that moment was that
his teeth were very white and even when he smiled. He had the impudence
to smile. He had the impudence to seize one of her hands in his, and to
hold aloft a sheet of paper in the other.

"What does this mean?" said he.

"What do you thick it means?" retorted Cynthia, with dignity.

"A summons to stay away," said Bob, thereby more or less accurately
describing it. "What would you have thought of me if I had not come?"

Cynthia was not prepared for any such question as this. She had meant to
ask the questions herself. But she never lacked for words to protect
herself.

"I'll tell you what I think of you for coming, Bob, for insisting upon
seeing me as you did," she said, remembering with shame Ellen's account
of that proceeding. "It was very unkind and very thoughtless of you."

"Unkind?" Thus she succeeded in putting him on the defensive.

"Yes, unkind, because I know it is best for you not to come to see me,
and you know it, and yet you will not help me when I try to do what is
right. I shall be blamed for these visits," she said. The young ladies in
the novels always were. But it was a serious matter for poor Cynthia, and
her voice trembled a little. Her troubles seemed very real.

"Who will blame you?" asked Bob, though he knew well enough. Then he
added, seeing that she did not an