“You must, Bob,” she answered, in a voice so low that it was almost a whisper; “you must give me up.”

“I would not,” he said, “I would not if the words were written on all the rocks of Coniston Mountain.  I love you.”

“Hush,” she said gently.  “I have to say some things to you.  They will be very hard to say, but you must listen to them.”

“I will listen,” he said doggedly; “but they will not affect my determination.”

“I am sure you do not wish to drive me away from Brampton,” she continued, in the same low voice, “when I have found a place to earn my living near-near Uncle Jethro.”

These words told him all he had suspected—­almost as much as though he had been present at the scene in the tannery shed in Coniston.  She knew now the life of Jethro Bass, but he was still “Uncle Jethro” to her.  It was even as Bob had supposed,—­that her affection once given could not be taken away.

“Cynthia,” he said, “I would not by an act or a word annoy or trouble you.  If you bade me, I would go to the other side of the world to-morrow.  You must know that.  But I should come back again.  You must know, that, too.  I should come back again for you.”

“Bob,” she said again, and her voice faltered a very little now, “you must know that I can never be your wife.”

“I do not know it,” he exclaimed, interrupting her vehemently, “I will not know it.”

“Think,” she said, “think!  I must say what I, have to say, however it hurts me.  If it had not been for—­for your father, those things never would have been written.  They were in his newspaper, and they express his feelings toward—­toward Uncle Jethro.”

Once the words were out, she marvelled that she had found the courage to pronounce them.

“Yes,” he said, “yes, I know that, but listen—­”

“Wait,” she went on, “wait until I have finished.  I am not speaking of the pain I had when I read these things, I—­I am not speaking of the truth that may be in them—­I have learned from them what I should have known before, and felt, indeed, that your father will never consent to—­to a marriage between us.”

“And if he does not,” cried Bob, “if he does not, do you think that I will abide by what he says, when my life’s happiness depends upon you, and my life’s welfare?  I know that you are a good woman, and a true woman, that you will be the best wife any man could have.  Though he is my father, he shall not deprive me of my soul, and he shall not take my life away from me.”

As Cynthia listened she thought that never had words sounded sweeter than these—­no, and never would again.  So she told herself as she let them run into her heart to be stored among the treasures there.  She believed in his love—­believed in it now with all her might. (Who, indeed, would not?) She could not demean herself now by striving to belittle it or doubt its continuance, as she had in Boston.  He was young, yes; but he would never be any older than this, could never love again like this.  So much was given her, ought she not to be content?  Could she expect more?