“What do you want to say?” asked Cynthia, still walking.  “I have to go.”

“Oh, no, you don’t!  Wait just a minute—­won’t you?”

Cynthia halted, with apparent unwillingness, and put out her toe between the pickets.  Then she saw that there was a little patch on that toe, and drew it in again.

“What do you want to say?” she repeated.  “I don’t believe you have anything to say at all.”  And suddenly she flashed a look at him that made his heart thump.

“I do—­I swear I do!” he protested.  “I’m coming down to the Pelican to-morrow morning to get you to go for a walk.”

Cynthia could not but think that the remoteness of the time he set was scarce in keeping with his ardent tone.

“I have something else to do to-morrow morning,” she answered.

“Then I’ll come to-morrow afternoon,” said Bob, instantly.

“Who lives here?” she asked irrelevantly.

“Mr. Duncan.  I’m visiting the Duncans.”

At this moment a carryall joined the carriage at the gate.  Cynthia glanced at the porch again.  The group there had gown larger, and they were still staring.  She began to feel uncomfortable again, and moved on slowly.

“Mayn’t I come?” asked Bob, going after her; and scraping the butt of the rod along the palings.

“Aren’t there enough girls here to satisfy you?” asked Cynthia.

“They’re enough—­yes,” he said, “but none of ’em could hold a candle to you.”

Cynthia laughed outright.

“I believe you tell them all something like that,” she said.

“I don’t do any such thing,” he retorted, and then he laughed himself, and Cynthia laughed again.

“I like you because you don’t swallow everything whole,” said Bob, “and—­well, for a good many other reams.”  And he looked into her face with such frank admiration that Cynthia blushed and turned away.

“I don’t believe a word you say,” she answered, and started to walk off, this time in earnest.

“Hold on,” cried Bob.  They were almost at the end of the fence by this, and the pickets were sharp and rather high, or he would have climbed them.

Cynthia paused hesitatingly.

“I’ll come at two o’clock to-morrow,” said he; “We’re going on a picnic to-day, to Dalton’s Bend, on the river.  I wish I could get out of it.”

Just then there came a voice from the gateway.

“Bob!  Bob Worthington!”

They both turned involuntarily.  A slender girl with light brown hair was standing there, waving at him.

“Who’s that?” asked Cynthia.

“That?” said Bob, in some confusion, “oh, that’s Janet Duncan.”

“Good-by,” said Cynthia.