“Mother—” Cynthia's tone had softened. Her face was filling with sudden pity for the quivering creature on the bed. “Mother, will you not have faith in me? If I promise you honestly to take care of myself, and make him understand what and who I am, won't that satisfy you? Even men with bad reputations have a good side to their natures, and they often reach a point at which they reform. A man like that interests a woman. I don't dispute that, but there are strong women and weak women. Mother, I'm not a weak woman; as God is my judge, I'm able to take care of myself. It pains me to say this, for you ought to know it; you ought to feel it. You ought to see it in my eye and hear it in my voice. Now go to bed, and sleep. I'm really afraid you may lose your mind since you told me about Aunt Martha.”
The face of the old woman changed. It lighted up with sudden hope.
“Somehow, I believe what you say,” she said, with a faint smile. “Anyway, I'll try not to worry any more.” She rose and went to the door. “Yes, I'll try not to worry any more,” she repeated. “It may all come out right.”
When she found herself alone Cynthia turned and looked at her reflection in the glass.
“He didn't once tell me plainly that he loved me,” she said. “He has never used that word. He has never said that he meant or wanted to mar—” She broke off, staring into the depths of her own great, troubled eyes—“and yet I let him hold me in his arms and kiss me—me!” A hot flush filled her neck and face and spread to the roots of her hair. Then suddenly she blew out the light and crept to her bed.
VII
ON the following Saturday morning there was, as usual, a considerable gathering of farmers at Springtown. A heavy fall of rain during the night had rendered the soil unfit for ploughing, and it was a sort of enforced holiday. Many of them stood around Mayhew & Floyd's store. Several women and children were seated between the two long counters, on boxes and the few available chairs. Nelson Floyd was at the high desk in the rear, occupied with business letters, when Pole Baker came in at the back-door and stood near the writer, furtively scanning the long room.
“Where's the old man?” he asked, when Floyd looked up and saw him.