there
with Bob. Susan's appeal brought her back to Boston and the gas-lit
parlor.

"Forgive you, Susan! There's nothing to forgive. I wanted him to go."

"You wanted him to go?" repeated Susan, amazed. She may be pardoned if
she did not believe this, but a glance at Cynthia's face scarcely left a
room for doubt. "Cynthia Wetherell, you're the strangest girl I've ever
known in all my life. If I had a--a friend" (Susan had another word on
her tongue) "if I had such a friend as Mr. Worthington, I shouldn't be in
a hurry to let him leave me. Of course," she added, "I shouldn't let him
know it."

Cynthia's heart was very heavy during the next few days, heavier by far
than her friends in Mount Vernon Street imagined. They had grown to love
her almost as one of themselves, and because of the sympathy which comes
of such love they guessed that her thoughts would be turning homeward at
Christmastide. At school she had listened, perforce, to the festival
plans of thirty girls of her own age; to accounts of the probable
presents they were to receive, the cost of some of which would support a
family in Coniston for several months; to arrangements for visits, during
which there were to be theatre-parties and dances and other gaieties.
Cynthia could not help wondering, as she listened in silence to this
talk, whether Uncle Jethro had done wisely in sending her to Miss
Sadler's; whether she would not have been far happier if she had never
known about such things.

Then came the last day of school, which began with leave-takings and
embraces. There were not many who embraced Cynthia, though, had she known
it, this was largely her own fault. Poor Cynthia! how was she to know it?
Many more of them than she imagined would have liked to embrace her had
they believed that the embrace would be returned. Secretly they had grown
to admire this strange, dark girl, who was too proud to bend for the good
opinion of any one--even of Miss Sally Broke. Once during the term
Cynthia had held some of them--in the hollow of her hand, and had
incurred the severe displeasure of Miss Sadler by refusing to tell what
she knew of certain mischief-makers.

Now, Miss Sadler was going about among them in the school parlor saying
good-by, sending particular remembrance to such of the fathers and
mothers as she thought worthy of that honor; kissing some, shaking, hands
with all. It was then that a dramatic incident occurred--dramatic for a
girls' school, at