delectation, several of Bob’s escapades in his freshman year:  silly escapades enough, but very bold and daring and original they sounded to Cynthia, who listened (if Mr. Browne could have known it) with almost breathless interest, and forgot all about poor Susan talking to Mr. King.  Did Mr. Worthington still while away his evenings stealing barber poles and being chased around Cambridge by irate policemen?  Mr. Browne laughed at the notion.  O dear, no! seniors never descended to that.  Had not Miss Wetherell heard the song wherein seniors were designated as grave and reverend?  Yes, Miss Wetherell had heard the song.  She did not say where, or how.  Mr. Worthington, said his classmate, had become very serious-minded this year.  Was captain of the base-ball team and already looking toward the study of law.

“Study law!” exclaimed Cynthia, “I thought he would go into his father’s mills.”

“Do you know Bob very well?” asked Mr. Browne.

She admitted that she did not.

“He’s been away from Brampton a good deal, of course,” said Mr. Browne, who seemed pleased by her admission.  To do him justice, he would not undermine a classmate, although he had other rules of conduct which might eventually require a little straightening out.  “Worthy’s a first-rate fellow, a little quick-tempered, perhaps, and inclined to go his own way.  He’s got a good mind, and he’s taken to using it lately.  He has come pretty near being suspended once or twice.”

Cynthia wanted to ask what “suspended” was.  It sounded rather painful.  But at this instant there was the rattle of a latch key at the door, and Mr. Merrill walked in.

“Well, well,” he said, spying Cynthia, “so you have got Cynthia to come down and entertain the young men at last.”

“Yes,” said Susan, “we have got Cynthia to come down at last.”

Susan did not go to Cynthia’s room that night to chat, as usual, and Mr. Morton Browne’s photograph was mysteriously removed from the prominent position it had occupied.  If Susan had carried out a plan which she conceived in a moment of folly of placing that photograph on Cynthia’s bureau, there would undoubtedly have been a quarrel.  Cynthia’s own feelings—­seeing that Mr. Browne had not dazzled her—­were not—­enviable.

But she held her peace, which indeed was all she could do, and the next time Mr. Browne called, though he took care to mention her name particularly at the door, she would not go down to entertain him:  though Susan implored and Jane appealed, she would not go down.  Mr. Browne called several times again, with the same result.  Cynthia was inexorable—­she would have none of him.  Then Susan forgave her.  There was no quarrel, indeed, but there was a reconciliation, which is the best part of a quarrel.  There were tears, of Susan’s shedding; there was a character-sketch of Mr. Browne, of Susan’s drawing, and that gentleman flitted lightly out of Susan’s life.