Thus for a time they swung together in ethereal space, breathless with the motion of their flight.  The duration of such moments is—­in words—­limitless.  Now he held her against him, and again he held her away that his eyes might feast upon hers until she dropped her lashes and the crimson tide flooded into her face and she hid it again in the refuge she had longed for,—­murmuring his name.  But at last, startled by some sound without and so brought back to earth, she led him gently to the window at the side and looked up at him searchingly.  He was tanned no longer.

“I was afraid you had been working too hard,” she said.

“So you do love me?” was Bob’s answer to this remark.

Cynthia smiled at him with her eyes:  gravely, if such a thing may be said of a smile.

“Bob, how can you ask?”

“Oh, Cynthia,” he cried, “if you knew what I have been through, you wouldn’t have held out, I know it.  I began to think I should never have you.”

“But you have me now,” she said, and was silent.

“Why do you look like that?” he asked.

She smiled up at him again.

“I, too, have suffered, Bob,” she said.  “And I have thought of you night and day.”

“God bless you, sweetheart,” he cried, and kissed her again,—­many times.  “It’s all right now, isn’t it?  I knew my father would give his consent when he found out what you were.”

The expression of pain which had troubled him crossed her face again, and she put her hand on his shoulder.

“Listen, dearest,” she said, “I love you.  I am doing this for you.  You must understand that.”

“Why, yes, Cynthia, I understand it—­of course I do,” he answered, perplexed.  “I understand it, but I don’t deserve it.”

“I want you to know,” she continued in a low voice, “that I should have married you anyway.  I—­I could not have helped it.”

“Cynthia!”

“If you were to go back to the locomotive works’ tomorrow, I would marry you.”

“On ninety dollars a month?” exclaimed Bob.

“If you wanted me,” she said.

“Wanted you!  I could live in a log cabin with you the rest of my life.”

She drew down his face to hers, and kissed him.

“But I wished you to be reconciled with your father,” she said; “I could not bear to come between you.  You—­you are reconciled, aren’t you?”

“Indeed, we are,” he said.

“I am glad, Bob,” she answered simply.  “I should not have been happy if I had driven you away from the place where you should be, which is your home.”

“Wherever you are will be my home; sweetheart,” he said, and pressed her to him once more.

At length, looking past his shoulder into the street, she saw Lem Hallowell pulling up the Brampton stage before the door.

“Bob,” she said, “I must go to Coniston and see Uncle Jethro.  I promised him.”

Bob’s answer was to walk into the entry, where he stood waving the most joyous of greetings at the surprised stage driver.