“My conduct may have appeared harsh to you,” he continued.  “I will not deny that I opposed the matter at first.  Robert was still in college, and he has a generous, impressionable nature which he inherits from his poor mother—­the kind of nature likely to commit a rash act which would ruin his career.  I have since become convinced that he has—­ahem—­inherited likewise a determination of purpose and an ability to get on in the world which I confess I had underestimated.  My friend, Mr. Broke, has written me a letter about him, and tells me that he has already promoted him.”

“Yes,” said Cynthia.

“You hear from him?” inquired Mr. Worthington, giving her a quick glance.

“Yes,” said Cynthia, her color rising a little.

“And yet,” said Mr. Worthington, slowly, “I have been under the impression that you have persistently refused to marry him.”

“That is true,” she answered.

“I cannot refrain from complimenting you, Cynthia, upon such rare conduct,” said he.  “You will be glad to know that it has contributed more than anything else toward my estimation of your character, and has strengthened me in my resolution that I am now doing right.  It may be difficult for you to understand a father’s feelings.  The complete separation from my only son was telling on me severely, and I could not forget that you were the cause of that separation.  I knew nothing about you, except—­” He hesitated, for she had turned to him.

“Except what?” she asked.

Mr. Worthington coughed.  Mr. Flint had told him, that very morning, of her separation from Jethro, and of the reasons which people believed had caused it.  Unfortunately, we have not time to go into that conversation with Mr. Flint, who had given a very good account of Cynthia indeed.  After all (Mr. Worthington reflected), he had consented to the marriage, and there was no use in bringing Jethro’s name into the conversation.  Jethro would be forgotten soon.

“I will not deny to You that I had other plans for my son,” he said.  “I had hoped that he would marry a daughter of a friend of mine.  You must be a little indulgent with parents, Cynthia,” he added with a little smile, “we have our castles in the air, too.  Sometimes, as in this case, by a wise provision of providence they go astray.  I suppose you have heard of Miss Duncan’s marriage.”

“No,” said Cynthia.

“She ran off with a worthless Italian nobleman.  I believe, on the whole,” he said, with what was an extreme complaisance for the first citizen, “that I have reason to congratulate myself upon Robert’s choice.  I have made inquiries about you, and I find that I have had the pleasure of knowing your mother, whom I respected very much.  And your father, I understand, came of very good people, and was forced by circumstances to adopt the means of livelihood he did.  My attention has been called to the letters he wrote to the Guardian, which I hear have been highly praised by competent critics, and I have ordered a set of them for the files of the library.  You yourself, I find, are highly thought of in Brampton” (a, not unimportant factor, by the way); “you have been splendidly educated, and are a lady.  In short, Cynthia, I have come to give my formal consent to your engagement to my son Robert.”