“I'll feel all right when I am up and stirring around,” Cynthia said, avoiding her mother's close scrutiny. “I tell you I'm not sick.” When she had dressed herself and gone out into the dining-room she found a delicious breakfast waiting for her, but she scarcely touched the food. The coffee she drank for its stimulating effect, and felt better. All that morning, however, she was the helpless victim of recurring forebodings. When her father came in from the village at noon she hung about him, hoping that he would drop some observation from which she might learn if Floyd had returned, but the quaint old gossip seemed to talk of everything except the subject to which her soul seemed bound. About the middle of the afternoon Mrs. Porter said she wanted a spool of cotton thread, and Cynthia offered to go to the village for it. “Not in this hot sun,” the old woman objected. “I could keep in the shade all the way,” Cynthia told her. “Well, if you'll do that, you may go,” Mrs. Porter gave in. “I don't know but what the exercise will do you good. I tell you, I don't like the looks of your skin and eyes. I'm afraid you are going to take down sick. You didn't touch breakfast and ate very little dinner.” Cynthia managed to laugh reassuringly as she went for her hat and sunshade. Indeed, the prospect even of activity had driven touches of color into her cheeks and her step was light and alert as she started off--so at least thought Mrs. Porter, who was looking after her from a window. But what did the trip amount to? At Mayhew & Floyd's store Joe Peters waited on her and had nothing to say of Floyd. While the clerk's back was turned Cynthia threw a guarded glance in the direction of Floyd's desk, but the shadows of the afternoon had enveloped that part of the room in obscurity, and she saw nothing that would even indirectly reply to her heart's question. It was on her tongue to inquire if Floyd had returned, but her pride laid a firm hand over her pretty mouth, and with her small purchase tightly clasped in her tense fingers, she went out into the street and turned her face homeward. The next day passed in much the same way, and the night. Then two other days and nights of racking torture came and went. The very lack of interest in the subject, of those about her, was maddening. She was sure now that something vital had happened to her lover, and Saturday at noon, when her father came from the village, she saw that he was the bearer of news. She knew, too, that it concerned Floyd before the old man had opened his lips. “Well, what you reckon has happened?” Nathan asked, with one of his unctuous smiles. “You two women could guess, an' guess, fer two thousand years, an' then never git in a mile o' what everybody in town is talkin' about.”