Frank went about the house-work, and left her to their guest. When Whitwell came back from the post-office, where he said he would only be gone a minute, he did not rejoin Westover and Cynthia in the parlor. The parlor door was shut; he had risked his fate, and they were talking it over. Cynthia was not sure; she was sure of nothing but that there was no one in the world she cared for so much; but she was not sure that was enough. She did not pretend that she was surprised; she owned that she had sometimes expected it; she blamed herself for not expecting it then. Westover said that he did not blame her for not knowing her mind; he had been fifteen years learning his own fully. He asked her to take all the time she wished. If she could not make sure after all, he should always be sure that she was wise and good. She told him everything there was to tell of her breaking with Jeff, and he thought the last episode a supreme proof of her wisdom and goodness. After a certain time they went for a walk in the warm summer moonlight under the elms, where they had met on the avenue. "I suppose," she said, as they drew near her door again, "that people don't often talk it over as we've done." "We only know from the novels," he answered. "Perhaps people do, oftener than is ever known. I don't see why they shouldn't." "No." "I've never wished to be sure of you so much as since you've wished to be sure of yourself." "And I've never been so sure as since you were willing to let me," said Cynthia. "I am glad of that. Try to think of me, if that will help my cause, as some one you might have always known in this way. We don't really know each other yet. I'm a great deal older than you, but still I'm not so very old." "Oh, I don't care for that. All I want to be certain of is that the feeling I have is really--the feeling." "I know, dear," said Westover, and his heart surged toward her in his tenderness for her simple conscience, her wise question. "Take time. Don't hurry. Forget what I've said--or no; that's absurd! Think of it; but don't let anything but the truth persuade you. Now, good-night, Cynthia." "Good-night--Mr. Westover." "Mr. Westover" he reproached her. She stood thinking, as if the question were crucial. Then she said, firmly, "I should always have to call you Mr. Westover." "Oh, well," he returned, "if that's all!"