collect himself. He did not dare at
first to look up from the logs, for fear he should forget himself and be
defeated instantly.

"I have been to Coniston, Cynthia," he said.

"Yes."

"I have been to Coniston this morning, and I have seen Mr. Bass, and I
have told him that I love you, and that I will never give you up. I
told you so in Boston, Cynthia," he said; "I knew that this this trouble
would come to you. I would have given my life to have saved you from
it--from the least part of it. I would have given my life to have been
able to say 'it shall not touch you.' I saw it flowing in like a great
sea between you and me, and yet I could not tell you of it. I could not
prepare you for it. I could only tell you that I would never give you
up, and I can only repeat that now."

"You must, Bob," she answered, in a voice so low that it was almost a
whisper; "you must give me up."

"I would not," he said, "I would not if the words were written on all
the rocks of Coniston Mountain. I love you."

"Hush," she said gently. "I have to say some things to you. They will be
very hard to say, but you must listen to them."

"I will listen," he said doggedly; "but they will not affect my
determination."

"I am sure you do not wish to drive me away from Brampton," she
continued, in the same low voice, "when I have found a place to earn my
living near-near Uncle Jethro."

These words told him all he had suspected--almost as much as though he
had been present at the scene in the tannery shed in Coniston. She knew
now the life of Jethro Bass, but he was still "Uncle Jethro" to her. It
was even as Bob had supposed,--that her affection once given could not
be taken away.

"Cynthia," he said, "I would not by an act or a word annoy or trouble
you. If you bade me, I would go to the other side of the world
to-morrow. You must know that. But I should come back again. You must
know, that, too. I should come back again for you."

"Bob," she said again, and her voice faltered a very little now, "you
must know that I can never be your wife."

"I do not know it," he exclaimed, interrupting her vehemently, "I will
not know it."

"Think," she said, "think! I must say what I, have to say, however it
hurts me. If it had not been for--for your father, those things never
would have been written. They were in his newspaper, and they express
his feelings toward--toward Uncle Jethro."

Once the words were out, she marvelled that she had fou