“Well, Cynthia, you should have come to the concert,” she said; “it was fine, wasn’t it, Jane?  Is this Mr. Worthington?  How do you do.  I’m Miss Susan Merrill, and this is Miss Jane Merrill.”  Susan only intended to stay a minute, but how was Bob to know that?  She was tempted into staying longer.  Bob lighted the gas, and she inspected him and approved.  Her approval increased when he began to talk to her in his bantering way, as if he had known her always.  Then, when she was fully intending to go, he rose to take his leave.

“I’m awfully glad to have met you at last,” he said to Susan, “I’ve heard so much about you.”  His leave-taking of Jane was less effusive, and then he turned to Cynthia and took her hand.  “I’m going to Brampton on Friday,” he said, “for the holidays.  I wish you were going.”

“We couldn’t think of letting her go, Mr. Worthington,” cried Susan, for the thought of the hills had made Cynthia incapable of answering.  “We’re only to have her for one short winter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Worthington, gravely.  “I’ll see old Ephraim, and tell him you’re well, and what a marvel of learning, you’ve become.  And—­and I’ll go to Coniston if that will please you.”

“Oh, no, Bob, you mustn’t do anything of the kind,” answered Cynthia, trying to keep back the tears.  “I—­I write to Uncle Jethro very often.  Good-by.  I hope you will enjoy your holidays.”

“I’m coming to see you the minute I get back and tell you all about everybody,” said he.

How was she to forbid him to come before Susan and Jane!  She could only be silent.

“Do come, Mr. Worthington,” said Susan, warmly, wondering at Cynthia’s coldness and, indeed, misinterpreting it.  “I am sure she will be glad to see you.  And we shall always make you welcome, at any rate.”

As soon as he was out of the door, Susan became very repentant, and slipped her hand about Cynthia’s waist.

“We shouldn’t have come in at all if we had known he would go so soon, indeed we shouldn’t, Cynthia.”  And seeing that Cynthia was still silent, she added:  “I wouldn’t do such a mean thing, Cynthia, I really wouldn’t.  Won’t you believe me and forgive me?”

Cynthia scarcely heard her at first.  She was thinking of Coniston mountain, and how the sun had just set behind it.  The mountain would be ultramarine against the white fields, and the snow on the hill pastures to the east stained red as with wine.  What would she not have given to be going back to-morrow—­yes, with Bob.  She confessed—­though startled by the very boldness of the thought—­that she would like to be going 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.”