“Oh yes, that is sufficient, of course,” Hillhouse said, still under his cloud of disappointment, “and I hope you will have a pleasant time. The truth is, Floyd is hard to beat at anything. He has a way about him that wins the--perhaps I may say--the sympathy of nearly all ladies.” A reply of some sort was struggling for an outlet in Cynthia's rapidly rising and falling bosom, but her mother forestalled her with tight lips and eyes that were flashing ominously. “Brother Hillhouse,” she said, “a man of that stamp has more influence over girls of the present generation than any other kind. Let a man be moral, religious, and sober, and thoughtful of the reputations of women, and he is shoved aside for the sort of men who fight duels and break hearts and ruin happy homes for their own idle gratification.” “Oh, Mrs. Porter, I didn't mean to raise such a--a point as that,” Hillhouse stammered. “I'm sure Miss Cynthia appreciates all that is good in humanity; in fact, I think she leans decidedly that way. I couldn't expect her to let a little public gossip turn her against a friend whom she believes in.” “Thank you, Mr. Hillhouse,” Cynthia said, drawing herself up to her full height and turning to go in. “I appreciate the way you look at it.” She went into the house, walking very straight and not looking back. Porter stood up and knocked the ashes from his pipe in his hard, broad hand. “Do you see that thar gate, parson?” he laughed. “Well, you take a fool's advice an' go home, an' come back some other time. Neither one o' them women know what they are a-talkin' about, an' they'll have you as crazy as they are in ten minutes ef you try to follow 'em.” When Hillhouse had gone, Mrs. Porter went back into the sitting-room and stood over Cynthia as the girl sat sewing at a window. “You may _think_ you've got my eyes closed,” the old woman said, “but you haven't. You didn't have any engagement with Nelson Floyd last night at supper, and you either saw him after we went to bed or you have had a secret note from him this morning.” “Have it your own way,” Cynthia said, indifferently, and hot with vexation she bent her head over her work. “I was watching your face this morning, too,” Mrs. Porter went on, “when your pa came in and said that Wade did not meet Floyd at the spring, and I noticed that you did not seem at all surprised. I'll get at the bottom of this, now you see if I don't!” And white with suppressed anger, Mrs. Porter turned away. As she went out Mrs. Radcliffe, with a tottering step, came into the room and drew near to Cynthia. “I am worried about your mother,” she said, standing with her thin hand resting on the window-frame. “She troubles so much over small things. I shudder when I think about it, Cynthia; but I'm afraid she'll go like your aunt did. It seems to be inherited from your grandfather's side of the family.” “Are you really afraid of that, granny?” The girl looked up, a serious expression dawning in her eyes.