She was just coming down the broad old staircase when Neal suddenly appeared at the foot. He had been waiting for her. He was to go back to-morrow, and he had determined to speak to her before he left.
She paused a moment in surprise, and the light from the Venetian lantern which hung in the hall shone down on her soft curly hair and young face as she stood with her hand resting on the bannister. Neal thought he had never seen so lovely a picture.
"I want to speak to you, Cynth," he said, leaning against the carved post at the foot of the stairs and effectually barring the way. There was nothing for her to do but to listen. "I have tried for ages, ever since I came, and you never will give me a chance."
"Nonsense! You have been away. How could you expect to talk to me if you went away?"
"I know; but I had to go. Besides, you wouldn't have let me if I had been here."
"Let us go back to the parlor. It is almost twelve."
"No, I want you here."
Cynthia was about to reply defiantly, but something in Neal's eyes made her drop her own. She stood there in silence.
"Cynthia, do you remember that day on the river in the rain?"
"Yes."