Suddenly there came a knock which frightened her, for her mind was running on swiftly from point to point:  had, indeed, flown as far as Coniston by now, and she was thinking of that strange look of peace on Jethro’s face which had troubled her.  One letter she thrust into her dress, but the other she laid aside, and her knees trembled under her as she rose and went into the entry and raised the latch and opened the door.  There was a moon, and the figure in the frock coat and the silk hat was the one which she expected to see.  The silk hat came off very promptly.

“I hope I am not disturbing you, Miss Wetherell,” said the owner of it.

“No,” answered Cynthia, faintly.

“May I come in?”

Cynthia held open the door a little wider, and Mr. Worthington walked in.  He seemed very majestic and out of place in the little house which Gabriel Post had built, and he carried into it some of the atmosphere of the walnut and high ceilings of his own mansion.  His manner of laying his hat, bottom up, on the table, and of unbuttoning his coat, subtly indicated the honor which he was conferring upon the place.  And he eyed Cynthia, standing before him in the lamplight, with a modification of the hawk-like look which was meant to be at once condescending and conciliatory.  He did not imprint a kiss upon her brow, as some prospective fathers-in-law would have done.  But his eyes, perhaps involuntarily, paid a tribute to her personal appearance which heightened her color.  She might not, after all, be such a discredit to the Worthington family.

“Won’t you sit down?” she asked.

“Thank you, Cynthia,” he said; “I hope I may now be allowed to call you Cynthia?”

She did not answer him, but sat down herself, and he followed her example; with his eyes still upon her.

“You have doubtless received my letter,” began Mr. Worthington.  “I only arrived in Brampton an hour ago, but I thought it best to come to you at once, under the circumstances.”

“Yes,” replied Cynthia, “I received the letter.”

“I am glad,” said Mr. Worthington.  He was beginning to be a little taken aback by her calmness and her apparent absence of joy.  It was scarcely the way in which a school-teacher should receive the advances of the first citizen, come to give a gracious consent to her marriage with his son.  Had he known it, Cynthia was anything but calm.  “I am glad,” he said, “because I took pains to explain the exact situation in that letter, and to set forth my own sentiments.  I hope you understood them.”

“Yes, I understood them,” said Cynthia, in a low tone.

This was enigmatical, to say the least.  But Mr. Worthington had come with such praiseworthy intentions that he was disposed to believe that the girl was overwhelmed by the good fortune which had suddenly overtaken her.  He was therefore disposed to be a little conciliatory.