Bob walked to the window.

“Father;” he said, speaking with a little difficulty, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your—­your coming round.  I wanted to do the right thing, but I just couldn’t give up such a girl as that.”

“We shall let bygones be bygones, Robert,” answered Mr. Worthington, clearing his throat.

“She never would have me without your consent.  By the way,” he cried, turning suddenly, “did she say she’d have me now?”

“I believe,” said Mr. Worthington, clearing his throat again, “I believe she reserved her decision.”

“I must be off,” said Bob, “she goes to Coniston on Fridays.  I’ll drive her out.  Good-by, Father.”

He flew out of the room, ran into Mrs. Holden, whom he astonished by saluting on the cheek, and astonished even more by asking her to tell Silas to drive his black horses to Gabriel Post’s house—­as the cottage was still known in Brampton.  And having hastily removed some of the cinders, he flew out of the door and reached the park-like space in the middle of Brampton Street.  Then he tried to walk decorously, but it was hard work.  What if she should not be in?

The door and windows of the little house were open that balmy afternoon, and the bees were buzzing among the flowers which Cynthia had planted on either side of the step.  Bob went up the path, and caught a glimpse of her through the entry standing in the sitting room.  She was, indeed, waiting for the Coniston stage, and she did not see him.  Shall I destroy the mental image of the reader who has known her so long by trying to tell what she looked like?  Some heroines grow thin and worn by the troubles which they are forced to go through.  Cynthia was not this kind of a heroine.  She was neither tall nor short, and the dark blue gown which she wore set off (so Bob thought) the curves of her figure to perfection.  Her face had become a little more grave—­yes, and more noble; and the eyes and mouth had an indescribable, womanly sweetness.

He stood for a moment outside the doorway gazing at her; hesitating to desecrate that revery, which seemed to him to have a touch of sadness in it.  And then she turned her head, slowly, and saw him, and her lips parted, and a startled look came into her eyes, but she did not move.  He came quickly into the room and stopped again, quivering from head to foot with the passion which the sight of her never failed to unloose within him.  Still she did not speak, but her lip trembled, and the love leaping in his eyes kindled a yearning in hers,—­a yearning she was powerless to resist.  He may by that strange power have drawn her toward him—­he never knew.  Neither of them could have given evidence on that marvellous instant when the current bridged the space between them.  He could not say whether this woman whom he had seized by force before had shown alike vitality in her surrender.  He only knew that her arms were woven about his neck, and that the kiss of which he had dreamed was again on his lips, and that he felt once more her wonderful, supple body pressed against his, and her heart beating, and her breast heaving.  And he knew that the strength of the love in her which he had gained was beyond estimation.