" she asked.

"I shall be back by five," said Cynthia.

She went up the hill, and across to old Louisburg Square, and up the
hill again. The weather had cleared, the violet-paned windows caught the
slanting sunlight and flung it back across the piles of snow. It was
a day for wedding-bells. At last Cynthia came to a queerly fashioned
little green door that seemed all askew with the slanting street, and
rang the bell, and in another moment was standing on the threshold of
Miss Lucretia Penniman's little sitting room. To Miss Lucretia, at her
writing table, one glance was sufficient. She rose quickly to meet
the girl, kissed her unresponsive cheek, and led her to a chair. Miss
Lucretia was never one to beat about the bush, even in the gravest
crisis.

"You have read the articles," she said.

Read them! During her walk hither Cynthia had been incapable of thought,
but the epithets and arraignments and accusations, the sentences and
paragraphs, wars printed now, upon her brain, never, she believed, to
be effaced. Every step of the way she had been unconsciously repeating
them.

"Have you read them?" asked Cynthia.

"Yes, my dear."

"Has everybody read them?" Did the whole world, then, know of her shame?

"I am glad you came to me, my dear," said Miss Lucretia, taking her
hand. "Have you talked of this to any one else?"

"No," said Cynthia, simply.

Miss Lucretia was puzzled. She had not looked for apathy, but she
did not know all of Cynthia's troubles. She wondered whether she had
misjudged the girl, and was misled by her attitude.

"Cynthia," she said, with a briskness meant to hide emotion for Miss
Lucretia had emotions, "I am a lonely old woman, getting too old,
indeed, to finish the task of my life. I went to see Mrs. Merrill the
other day to ask her if she would let you come and live with me. Will
you?"

Cynthia shook her head.

"No, Miss Lucretia, I cannot," she answered.

"I won't press it on you now," said Miss Lucretia.

"I cannot, Miss Lucretia. I'm going to Coniston."

"Going to Coniston!" exclaimed Miss Lucretia.

The name of that place--magic name, once so replete with visions of
happiness and content--seemed to recall Cynthia's spirit from its
flight. Yes, the spirit was there, for it flashed in her eyes as she
turned and looked into Miss Lucretia's face.

"Are these the articles you read?" she asked; taking the clippings from
her muff.

Miss Lucretia put on her spectacles.

"I have