re crept into his mind, and he
got up, and drew on his clothes and thrust his few belongings into the
carpet-bag, and knocked on Cynthia's door. She was already dressed, and
her eyes rested searchingly on his face.

"Dad, you aren't well. I know it," she said.

But he denied that he was not.

Her belongings were in a neat little bundle under her arm. But when she
went to put them in the bag she gave an exclamation, knelt down, took
everything out that he had packed, and folded each article over again
with amazing quickness. Then she made a rapid survey of the room lest
she had forgotten anything, closed the bag, and they went out and along
the corridor. But when Wetherell turned to go down the stairs, she
stopped him.

"Aren't you going to say goodby to Uncle Jethro?"

"I--I would rather go on and get in the train, Cynthia," he said.
"Jethro will understand."

Cynthia was worried, but she did not care to leave him; and she led him,
protesting, into the dining room. He had a sinking fear that they might
meet Jethro there, but only a few big-boned countrymen were scattered
about, attended by sleepy waitresses. Lest Cynthia might suspect how his
head was throbbing, Wetherell tried bravely to eat his breakfast. He did
not know that she had gone out, while they were waiting, and written a
note to Jethro, explaining that her father was ill, and that they were
going back to Coniston. After breakfast, when they went to the desk, the
clerk stared at them in astonishment.

"Going, Mr. Wetherell?" he exclaimed.

"I find that I have to get back," stammered the storekeeper. "Will you
tell me the amount of my bill?"

"Judge Bass gave me instructions that he would settle that."

"It is very kind of Mr. Bass," said Wetherell, "but I prefer to pay it
myself."

The man hesitated.

"The judge will be very angry, Mr. Wetherell."

"Kindly give me the bill."

The clerk made it out and handed it over in silence. Wetherell had in
his pocket the money from several contributions to the Guardian, and he
paid him. Then they set out for the station, bought their tickets and
hurried past the sprinkling of people there. The little train for Truro
was standing under the sheds, the hissing steam from the locomotive
rising perpendicular in the still air of the morning, and soon they were
settled in one of the straight-backed seats. The car was almost empty,
for few people were going up that day, and at length, after what, seemed
an et