“Why, yes, we could drive back to the Hillcrest road, but it would take two hours longer.” “Well, we would have to wait here that long wouldn't we?” “Yes, it's six of one and half a dozen of the other,” he smiled. “If you'd rather be in the buggy and on the move, why, we can start.” “I think I had,” she said. “All right; you are the doctor,” he laughed. “I'll get Jack out and have him hitched to the buggy in a minute.” XVII THE sun--and it had never seemed to shine so brightly before--had been up about half an hour when the couple drove up to Porter's gate. “There's mother at the window now,” Cynthia said, as she got out of the buggy. “I can see that she's angry even from here.” “I'll hitch Jack and go in and explain,” offered Floyd. “Oh no, don't!” Cynthia said, quickly. “I'll tell her all about it. Go on. Good-bye.” “Good-bye, then,” Floyd said, and he drove on to the village. But Mrs. Porter did not come to the door to meet her as Cynthia expected. The girl found her alone in the sitting-room seated sulkily at the fireplace, where a few sticks of damp wood were burning gloomily. “Well, where did you spend the night?” the old woman asked, icily. Cynthia stood before her, withered to her soul by the tone in which her mother's question had been asked. “You are not going to like it a bit, mother,” the girl said, resignedly. “The storm overtook us just as we got to Long's mill. The horse was frightened and about to run away and the road was awfully dangerous. There was nothing for us to do but to go in.” “Long's mill! Oh, my God! there is no one living there, nor in miles of it!” “I know it, mother.” Mrs. Porter buried her pale, wrinkled face in her hands and leaned forward in her chair, her sharp elbows on her knees. “I'm never going to get over this!” she groaned--“never--never; and you are my _only_ child!” “Mother!” Cynthia bent down and almost with anger drew the old woman's hand from her face. “Do you know what you are saying? Do you know that--that you may drive me from home with that insinuation?” Mrs. Porter groaned. She got up stiffly, and, like a mechanical thing moved by springs, she caught her daughter's wrist and led her to a window, sternly staring at her from her great, sunken eyes. “Do you mean to tell me that you and _that_ man sat together all the live-long night in that mill?” “Mother, I was completely tired out. There was some fodder on the floor. I sat down on it, and after a long time I dropped asleep. He did too. He was near the door, and I--” Mrs. Porter extended the stiff fingers of her hand and plucked a piece of fodder from Cynthia's hair, and held it sneeringly up to the light. “It's a pity you didn't have a comb and brush with you,” she said. “You'd have been supplied at a hotel. Your hair is all in a mess. I'm going to keep this little thing. Light as it is, it has knocked life and hope out of me.”