, although many people will not believe
this statement. Miss Lucretia, too, had a heart, though she kept it
hidden away, only to be brought out on occasions when she was sure
of its appreciation, and she grew strangely interested in this
self-contained girl from Coniston whose mother she had known. Miss
Lucretia understood Cynthia, who also was the kind who kept her heart
hidden, the kind who conceal their troubles and sufferings because they
find it difficult to give them out. So Miss Lucretia had Cynthia to take
supper with her at least once in the week, and watched her quietly, and
let her speak of as much of her life as she chose--which was not much,
at first. But Miss Lucretia was content to wait, and guessed at many
things which Cynthia did not tell her, and made some personal effort,
unknown to Cynthia, to find out other things. It will be said that she
had designs on the girl. If so, they were generous designs; and perhaps
it was inevitable that Miss Lucretia should recognize in every young
woman of spirit and brains a possible recruit for the cause.

It has now been shown in some manner and as briefly as possible how
Cynthia's life had changed, and what it had become. We have got her
partly through the winter, and find her still dreaming of the sparkling
snow on Coniston and of the wind whirling it on clear, cold days like
smoke among the spruces; of Uncle Jethro sitting by his stove through
the long evenings all alone; of Rias in his store and Moses Hatch and
Lem Hallowell, and Cousin Ephraim in his new post-office. Uncle Jethro
wrote for the first time in his life--letters: short letters, but in
his own handwriting, and deserving of being read for curiosity's sake
if there were time. The wording was queer enough and guarded enough,
but they were charged with a great affection which clung to them like
lavender.

And Cynthia kept them every one, and read them over on such occasions
when she felt that she could not live another minute out of sight of her
mountain.

Such was the state of affairs one gray afternoon in December when
Cynthia, who was sitting in Mrs. Merrill's parlor, suddenly looked up
from her book to discover that two young men were in the room. The young
men were apparently quite as much surprised as she, and the parlor maid
stood grinning behind them.

"Tell Miss Susan and Miss Jane, Ellen," said Cynthia, preparing to
depart. One of the young men she recognized from a photograph on Susan's