“Yes, he’ll be all right, but if he wouldn’t, and I knew it, I should have to tell him, all the same.  Now, good-night.  Well, there, then; and there!  Now, let me go!”

She paused for a moment in her own room, to smooth her tumbled hair, and try to identify herself in her glass.  Then she went into the sitting-room, where she found her father pulled up to the table, with his hat on, and poring over a sheet of hieroglyphics, which represented the usual evening with planchette.

“Have you been to help Jackson up?” she asked.

“Well, I wanted to, but he wouldn’t hear of it.  He’s feelin’ ever so much better to-night, and he wanted to go alone.  I just come in.”

“Yes, you’ve got your hat on yet.”

Whitwell put his hand up and found that his daughter was right.  He laughed, and said:  “I guess I must ‘a’ forgot it.  We’ve had the most interestin’ season with plantchette that I guess we’ve about ever had.  She’s said something here—­”

“Well, never mind; I’ve got something more important to say than plantchette has,” said Cynthia, and she pulled the sheet away from under her father’s eyes.

This made him look up at her.  “Why, what’s happened?”

“Nothing.  Jeff Durgin has asked me to marry him.”

“He has!” The New England training is not such as to fit people for the expression of strong emotion, and the best that Whitwell found himself able to do in view of the fact was to pucker his mouth for a whistle which did not come.

“Yes—­this afternoon,” said Cynthia, lifelessly.  The tension of her nerves relaxed in a languor which was evident even to her father, though his eyes still wandered to the sheet she had taken from him.

“Well, you don’t seem over and above excited about it.  Did—­did your—­What did you say—­”

“How should I know what I said?  What do you think of it, father?”

“I don’t know as I ever give the subject much attention,” said the philosopher.  “I always meant to take it out of him, somehow, if he got to playin’ the fool.”

“Then you wanted I should accept him?”

“What difference ’d it make what I wanted?  That what you done?”

“Yes, I’ve accepted him,” said the girl, with a sigh.  “I guess I’ve always expected to.”

“Well, I thought likely it would come to that, myself.  All I can say, Cynthy, is ’t he’s a lucky feller.”

Whitwell leaned back, bracing his knees against the table, which was one of his philosophic poses.  “I have sometimes believed that Jeff Durgin was goin’ to turn out a blackguard.  He’s got it in him.  He’s as like his gran’father as two peas, and he was an old devil.  But you got to account in all these here heredity cases for counteractin’ influences.  The Durgins are as good as wheat, right along, all of ’em; and I guess Mis’ Durgin’s mother must have been a pretty good woman too.  Mis’ Durgin’s all right, too, if she has got a will of her own.”  Whitwell returned from his scientific inquiry to ask:  “How ’ll she take it?”