hat place in the year gone by. And yet not so. Now he clung
to her with a desperation that was terrible, as though to let go of
her would be to fall into nameless voids beyond human companionship and
love. But at last he did release her, and stood looking down into her
face, as if seeking to read a sentence there.

And how was she to pronounce that sentence! Though her faith might
be taken away, her love remained, and grew all the greater because he
needed it. Yet she knew that no subterfuge or pretence would avail her
to hide why she had come. She could not hide it. It must be spoken out
now, though death was preferable.

And he was waiting. Did he guess? She could not tell. He had spoken no
word but her name. He had expressed no surprise at her appearance, asked
no reasons for it. Superlatives of suffering or joy or courage are hard
to convey--words fall so far short of the feeling. And Cynthia's pain
was so far beyond tears.

"Uncle Jethro," she said, "yesterday something--something happened. I
could not stay in Boston any longer."

He nodded.

"I had to come to you. I could not wait."

He nodded again.

"I--I read something." To take a white-hot iron and sear herself would
have been easier than this.

"Yes," he said.

She felt that the look was coming again--the look which she had
surprised in his face. His hands dropped lifelessly from her shoulders,
and he turned and went to the door, where he stood with his back to
her, silhouetted against the eastern sky all pink from the reflection
of sunset. He would not help her. Perhaps he could not. The things were
true. There had been a grain of hope within her, ready to sprout.

"I read two articles from the Newcastle Guardian about you--about your
life."

"Yes," he said. But he did not turn.

"How you had--how you had earned your living. How you had gained your
power," she went on, her pain lending to her voice an exquisite note of
many modulations.

"Yes--Cynthy," he said, and still stared at the eastern sky.

She took two steps toward him, her arms outstretched, her fingers
opening and closing. And then she stopped.

"I would believe no one," she said, "I will believe no
one--until--unless you tell me. Uncle Jethro," she cried in agony,
"Uncle Jethro, tell me that those things are not true!"

She waited a space, but he did not stir. There was no sound, save the
song of Coniston Water under the shattered ice.

"Won't you speak to me?" she whispere