“Cynthia-my love!” he cried, and raised his arms.  But a look as of a great fear came into her eyes, which for one exquisite moment had yielded to his own; and her breath came quickly, as though she were spent—­as indeed she was.  So far spent that the wall at her back was grateful.

“No!” she said; “no—­you must not—­you must not—­you must not!” Again and again she repeated the words, for she could summon no others.  They were a mandate—­had he guessed it—­to herself as to him.  For the time her brain refused its functions, and she could think of nothing but the fact that he was there, beside her, ready to take her in his arms.  How she longed to fly into them, none but herself knew—­to fly into them as into a refuge secure against the evil powers of the world.  It was not reason that restrained her then, but something higher in her, that restrained him likewise.  Without moving from the wall she pushed open the door of the sitting room.

“Go in there,” she said.

He went in as she bade him and stood before the flickering logs in the wide and shallow chimney-place—­logs that seemed to burn on the very hearth itself, and yet the smoke rose unerring into the flue.  No stove had ever desecrated that room.  Bob looked into the flames and waited, and Cynthia stood in the entry fighting this second great battle which had come upon her while her forces were still spent with that other one.  Woman in her very nature is created to be sheltered and protected; and the yearning in her, when her love is given, is intense as nature itself to seek sanctuary in that love.  So it was with Cynthia leaning against the entry wall, her arms full length in front of her, and her hands clasped as she prayed for strength to withstand the temptation.  At last she grew calmer, though her breath still came deeply, and she went into the sitting room.

Perhaps he knew, vaguely, why she had not followed him at once.  He had grown calmer himself, calmer with that desperation which comes to a man of his type when his soul and body are burning with desire for a woman.  He knew that he would have to fight for her with herself.  He knew now that she was too strong in her position to be carried by storm, and the interval had given him time to collect himself.  He did not dare at first to look up from the logs, for fear he should forget himself and be defeated instantly.

“I have been to Coniston, Cynthia,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I have been to Coniston this morning, and I have seen Mr. Bass, and I have told him that I love you, and that I will never give you up.  I told you so in Boston, Cynthia,” he said; “I knew that this this trouble would come to you.  I would have given my life to have saved you from it—­from the least part of it.  I would have given my life to have been able to say ‘it shall not touch you.’  I saw it flowing in like a great sea between you and me, and yet I could not tell you of it.  I could not prepare you for it.  I could only tell you that I would never give you up, and I can only repeat that now.”