William
Wetherell understood and was not jealous of this thing: which leads
us to believe that some essence of virility was lacking in him, some
substance that makes the fighters and conquerors in this world. In such
mood he listened to the story of Jethro Bass.

"My dear husband," said Cynthia, when she had finished, her hand
tightening over his, "I have never told you this for fear that it might
trouble you as it has troubled me. I have found in your love sanctuary;
and all that remains of myself I have given to you."

"You have found a weakling to protect, and an invalid to nurse," he
answered. "To have your compassion, Cynthia, is all I crave."

So they lived through the happiest and swiftest years of his life,
working side by side, sharing this strange secret between them. And
after that night Cynthia talked to him often of Coniston, until he
came to know the mountain that lay along the western sky, and the sweet
hillsides by Coniston Water under the blue haze of autumn, aye, and
clothed in the colors of spring, the bright blossoms of thorn and apple
against the tender green of the woods and fields. So he grew to love the
simple people there, but little did he foresee that he was to end his
life among them!

But so it came to pass, she was taken from him, who had been the one joy
and inspiration of his weary days, and he was driven, wandering, into
unfrequented streets that he might not recall, the places where she had
once trod, and through the wakeful nights her voice haunted him,--its
laughter, its sweet notes of seriousness; little ways and manners of her
look came to twist his heart, and he prayed God to take him, too, until
it seemed that Cynthia frowned upon him for his weakness. One mild
Sunday afternoon, he took little Cynthia by the hand and led her,
toddling, out into the sunny Common, where he used to walk with her
mother, and the infant prattle seemed to bring--at last a strange peace
to his storm-tossed soul.

For many years these Sunday walks in the Common were Wetherell's
greatest pleasure and solace, and it seemed as though little Cynthia had
come into the world with an instinct, as it were, of her mission that
lent to her infant words a sweet gravity and weight. Many people used to
stop and speak to the child, among them a great physician whom they grew
to know. He was, there every Sunday, and at length it came to be a habit
with him to sit down on the bench and take Cynthia on his knee, and