he mind deny as
vehemently as it will. Cynthia read, and as she read her body was shaken
with sobs, though the tears came not. Could it be true? Could the least
particle of the least of these fearful insinuations be true? Oh, the
treason of those whispers in a voice that was surely not her own, and
yet which she could not hush! Was it possible that such things could be
printed about one whom she had admired and respected above all men--nay,
whom she had so passionately adored from childhood? A monster of
iniquity, a pariah! The cruel, bitter calumny of those names! Cynthia
thought of his goodness and loving kindness and his charity to her and
to many others. His charity! The dreaded voice repeated that word, and
sent a thought that struck terror into her heart: Whence had come the
substance of that charity? Then came another word--mortgage. There it
was on the paper, and at sight of it there leaped out of her memory
a golden-green poplar shimmering against the sky and the distant blue
billows of mountains in the west. She heard the high-pitched voice of a
woman speaking the word, and even then it had had a hateful sound, and
she heard herself asking, "Uncle Jethro, what is a mortgage?" He had
struck his horse with the whip.

Loyal though the girl was, the whispers would not hush, nor the doubts
cease to assail her. What if ever so small a portion of this were true?
Could the whole of this hideous structure, tier resting upon tier, have
been reared without something of a foundation? Fiercely though she told
herself she would believe none of it, fiercely though she hated Mr.
Worthington, fervently though she repeated aloud that her love for
Jethro and her faith in him had not changed, the doubts remained. Yet
they remained unacknowledged.

An hour passed. It was a thing beyond belief that one hour could have
held such a store of agony. An hour passed, and Cynthia came dry-eyed
from the parlor. Susan and Jane, waiting to give her comfort when she
was recovered a little from this unknown but overwhelming affliction,
were fain to stand mute when they saw her to pay a silent deference to
one whom sorrow had lifted far above them and transfigured. That was the
look on Cynthia's face. She went up the stairs, and they stood in the
hall not knowing what to do, whispering in awe-struck voices. They were
still there when Cynthia came down again, dressed for the street. Jane
seized her by the hand.

"Where are you going, Cynthia?