forest over the crag
looking down upon the green clumps of spruces against the snow. Some
vague longing for such a refuge was in Cynthia's heart as she gazed
upon that silent place, and then the waters had already begun to run
westward--the waters of Tumble Down brook, which flowed into Coniston
Water above Brampton. The sun still had more than two hours to go on its
journey to the hill crests when the train pulled into Brampton station.
There were but a few people on the platform, but the first face she saw
as she stepped from the car was Lem Hallowell's. It was a very red face,
as we know, and its owner was standing in front of the Coniston stage,
on runners now. He stared at her for an instant, and no wonder, and then
he ran forward with outstretched hands.

"Cynthy--Cynthy Wetherell!" he cried. "Great Godfrey!"

He got so far, he seized her hands, and then he stopped, not knowing
why. There were many more ejaculations and welcomes and what not on the
end of his tongue. It was not that she had become a lady--a lady of a
type he had never before seen. He meant to say that, too, in his own
way, but he couldn't. And that transformation would have bothered Lem
but little. What was the change, then? Why was he in awe of her--he, Lem
Hallowell, who had never been in awe of any one? He shook his head,
as though openly confessing his inability to answer that question. He
wanted to ask others, but they would not come.

"Lem," she said, "I am so glad you are here."

"Climb right in, Cynthy. I'll get the trunk." There it lay, the little
rawhide one before him on the boards, and he picked it up in his bare
hands as though it had been a paper parcel. It was a peculiarity of the
stage driver that he never wore gloves, even in winter, so remarkable
was the circulation of his blood. After the trunk he deposited,
apparently with equal ease, various barrels and boxes, and then he
jumped in beside Cynthia, and they drove down familiar Brampton Street,
as wide as a wide river; past the meeting-house with the terraced
steeple; past the postoffice,--Cousin Ephraim's postoffice,--where Lem
gave her a questioning look--but she shook her head, and he did not wait
for the distribution of the last mail that day; past the great mansion
of Isaac D. Worthington, where the iron mastiffs on the lawn were up to
their muzzles in snow. After that they took the turn to the right, which
was the road to Coniston.

Well-remembered road, and in winter