uddenly remembered that one went to church to honor God, and
wore her old one; walked to meeting in a flutter of expectancy not to be
denied, and would have looked around had that not been a cardinal sin
in Coniston. No Jethro! General opinion (had she waited to hear it among
the horse sheds or on the green), that Jethro's soul had slid back into
the murky regions, from which it were folly for even Cynthia to try to
drag it.

CHAPTER III

To prove that Jethro's soul had not slid back into the murky regions,
and that it was still indulging in flights, it is necessary to follow
him (for a very short space) to Boston. Jethro himself went in Lyman
Hull's six-horse team with a load of his own merchandise--hides that he
had tanned, and other country produce. And they did not go by the way of
Truro Pass to the Capital, but took the state turnpike over the ranges,
where you can see for miles and miles and miles on a clear summer
day across the trembling floors of the forest tops to lonely sentinel
mountains fourscore miles away.

No one takes the state turnpike nowadays except crazy tourists who
are willing to risk their necks and their horses' legs for the sake of
scenery. The tough little Morgans of that time, which kept their feet
like cats, have all but disappeared, but there were places on that road
where Lyman Hull put the shoes under his wheels for four miles at a
stretch. He was not a companion many people would have chosen with whom
to enjoy the beauties of such a trip, and nearly everybody in Coniston
was afraid of him. Jethro Bass would sit silent on the seat for hours
and--it is a fact to be noted that when he told Lyman to do a thing,
Lyman did it; not, perhaps, without cursing and grumbling. Lyman was a
profane and wicked man--drover, farmer, trader, anything. He had a cider
mill on his farm on the south slopes of Coniston which Mr. Ware had
mentioned in his sermons, and which was the resort of the ungodly. The
cider was not so good as Squire Northcutt's, but cheaper. Jethro was not
afraid of Lyman, and he had a mortgage on the six-horse team, and on the
farm and the cider mill.

After six days, Jethro and Lyman drove over Charlestown bridge and
into the crooked streets of Boston, and at length arrived at a drover's
hotel, or lodging-house that did not, we may be sure, front on Mount
Vernon Street or face the Mall. Lyman proceeded to get drunk, and Jethro
to sell the hides and other merchandise which Lym