ed him, greater than any knew--the opinion
and regard and the praise of one whom he loved beyond all the world. On
Friday she came to him, on Friday at sunset, for the days were growing
longer, and that was the happiest sunset of his life. She said nothing
as she raised her face to his and kissed him and clung to him in the
little parlor, but he knew, and he had his reward. So much for earthly
power Cynthia brought the little rawhide trunk this time, and came to
Coniston for the March vacation--a happy two weeks that was soon gone.
Happy by comparison, that is, with what they both had suffered, and a
haven of rest after the struggle and despair of the wilderness. The bond
between them had, in truth, never been stronger, for both the young girl
and the old man had denied themselves the thing they held most dear.
Jethro had taken refuge and found comfort in his love. But Cynthia! Her
greatest love had now been bestowed elsewhere.

If there were letters for the tannery house, Milly Skinner, who made it
a point to meet the stage, brought them. And there were letters during
Cynthia's sojourn,--many of them, bearing the Cambridge postmark. One
evening it was Jethro who laid the letter on the table beside her as she
sat under the lamp. He did not look at her or speak, but she felt that
he knew her secret--felt that he deserved to have from her own lips what
he had been too proud--yes--and too humble to ask. Whose sympathy
could she be sure of, if not of his? Still she had longed to keep this
treasure to herself. She took the letter in her hand.

"I do not answer them, Uncle Jethro, but--I cannot prevent his writing
them," she faltered. She did not confess that she kept them, every one,
and read them over and over again; that she had grown, indeed, to look
forward to them as to a sustenance. "I--I do love him, but I will not
marry him."

Yes, she could be sure of Jethro's sympathy, though he could not express
it in words. Yet she had not told him for this. She had told him, much
as the telling had hurt her, because she feared to cut him more deeply
by her silence.

It was a terrible moment for Jethro, and never had he desired the gift
of speech as now. Had it not been for him; Cynthia might have been
Robert Worthington's wife. He sat down beside her and put his hand over
hers that lay on the letter in her lap. It was the only answer he could
make, but perhaps it was the best, after all. Of what use were words at
such a time