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." "You must, Bob," she answered, in a voice so low that it was almost a whisper; "you must give me up." "I would not," he said, "I would not if the words were written on all the rocks of Coniston Mountain. I love you." "Hush," she said gently. "I have to say some things to you. They will be very hard to say, but you must listen to them." "I will listen," he said doggedly; "but they will not affect my determination." "I am sure you do not wish to drive me away from Brampton," she continued, in the same low voice, "when I have found a place to earn my living near-near Uncle Jethro." These words told him all he had suspected--almost as much as though he had been present at the scene in the tannery shed in Coniston. She knew now the life of Jethro Bass, but he was still "Uncle Jethro" to her. It was even as Bob had supposed,--that her affection once given could not be taken away.