“Well, I'm glad you don't love him,” Floyd said. “I don't think he could make any one of your nature happy.” The girl stared into his eyes. They had reached the gate of the farm-house and he opened it for her. “Now, good-night,” he said, pressing her hand. “Remember, if you ever hear a lonely whippoorwill calling, that he is longing for companionship.” She leaned over the gate, drawing it towards her till the iron latch clicked in its catch. With a shudder she recalled the hot kiss he had pressed upon her lips, and wondered what he might later think about it. “I'll never meet you there at night,” she said, firmly. “My mother doesn't treat me right, but I shall not act that way when she is asleep. You may come to see me here now and then, but it will go no further than that.” “Well, I shall sit alone in the arbor,” he returned with a low laugh, “and I hope your hard heart will keep you awake. I wouldn't treat a hound-dog that way, little girl.” “Well, I shall treat a strong man that way,” she said, and she went into the house. She opened the front-door, which was never locked, and went into her room on the right of the little hall. The night was very still, and down the road she heard Floyd's whippoorwill call growing fainter and fainter as he strode away. She found a match and lighted the lamp on her bureau and looked at her reflection in the little oval-shaped mirror. Remembering his embrace, she shuddered and wiped her lips with her hand. “He'll despise me,” she muttered. “He'll think I am weak, like those other girls, but I am not. I _am not_. I'll show him that he can't, and yet”--her head sank to her hands, which were folded on the top of the bureau--“I couldn't help it. My God! I couldn't help it. I must have actually wanted him to--no, I didn't. I didn't; he held me. I had no idea his arm was behind me till he--” There was a soft step in the hall. The door of her room creaked like the low scream of a cat. A gaunt figure in white stood on the threshold. It was Mrs. Porter in her night-dress, her feet bare, her iron-gray hair hanging loose upon her shoulders. “I couldn't go to sleep, Cynthia,” she said, “till I knew you were safe at home.” “Well, I'm here all right, mother, so go back to bed and don't catch your death of cold.” The old woman moved across the room to Cynthia's bed and sat down on it. “I heard you coming down the road and went to the front window. I had sent Brother Hillhouse for you, but it was Nelson Floyd who brought you home. Didn't Brother Hillhouse get there before you left?” “Yes, but I had already promised Mr. Floyd.” The old woman met her daughter's glance steadily. “I suppose all I'll do or say won't do a bit o' good. Cynthia, you know what I'm afraid of.” The girl stood straight, her face set and firm, her great, dreamy eyes flashing.