“It wouldn’t be with Jackson—­it wouldn’t be with Mr. Westover.”

“There a’n’t many men like Mr. Westover—­well, not a great many; or Jackson, either.  Time!  I wish Jackson was home!  He’d know how to straighten this thing out, and he wouldn’t weaken over Jeff much—­well, not much.  But he a’n’t here, and you’ve got to act for yourself.  The way I look at it is this:  you took Jeff when you knowed what a comical devil he was, and I presume you ha’n’t got quite the same right to be disappointed in what he done as if you hadn’t knowed.  Now mind, I a’n’t excusin’ him.  But if you knowed he was the feller to play the devil if he got a chance, the question is whether—­whether—­”

“I know what you mean, father,” said the girl, “and I don’t want to shirk my responsibility.  It was everything to have him come right up and tell me.”

“Well,” said Whitwell, impartially, “as far forth as that goes, I don’t think he’s strained himself.  He’d know you would hear of it sooner or later anyway, and he ha’n’t just found out that he was goin’ wrong.  Been keepin’ it up for the last three months, and writin’ you all the while them letters you was so crazy to get.”

“Yes,” sighed the girl.  “But we’ve got to be just to his disposition as well as his actions.  I can see it in one light that can excuse it some.  He can’t bear to be put down, and I know he’s been left out a good deal among the students, and it’s made him bitter.  He told me about it; that’s one reason why he wanted to leave Harvard this last year.  He saw other young men made much of, when he didn’t get any notice; and when he had the chance to pay them back with a girl of their own set that was trying to make a fool of him—­”

“That was the time for him to remember you,” said Whitwell.

Cynthia broke under the defence she was trying to make.  “Yes,” she said, with an indrawn sigh, and she began to sob piteously.

The sight of her grief seemed to kindle her father’s wrath to a flame.  “Any way you look at him, he’s been a dumn blackguard; that’s what he’s been.  You’re a million times too good for him; and I—­”

She sobbed herself quiet, and then she said:  “Father, I don’t like to go up there to-night.  I want to stay here.”

“All right, Cynthia.  I’ll come down and stay with you.  You got everything we want here?”

“Yes.  And I’ll go up and get the breakfast for them in the morning.  There won’t be much to do.”

“Dumn ’em!  Let ’em get their own breakfast!” said Whitwell, recklessly.

“And, father,” the girl went on as if he had not spoken, “don’t you talk to Mrs. Durgin about it, will you?”

“No, no.  I sha’n’t speak to her.  I’ll just tell Frank you and me are goin’ to stay down here to-night.  She’ll suspicion something, but she can figure it out for herself.  Or she can make Jeff tell her.  It can’t be kept from her.”

“Well, let him be the one to tell her.  Whatever happens, I shall never speak of it to a soul besides you.”