de that is false. Of
what gratification now was the overthrow of Jethro Bass?

He stared at the letter for a moment after he had finished it, and
his face grew a dark red. Then he seized the paper and tore it slowly,
deliberately, into bits.

Dudley Worthington was not thinking then--not he!--of the young man in
the white beaver who had called at the Social Library many years
before to see a young woman whose name, too, had been Cynthia.--He was
thinking, in fact, for he was a man to think in anger, whether it were
not possible to remove this Cynthia from the face of the earth--at least
to a place beyond his horizon and that of his son. Had he worn the chain
mail instead of the frock coat he would have had her hung outside the
town walls.

"Good God!" he exclaimed. And the words sounded profane indeed as
he fixed his eyes upon Mr. Flint. "You knew that Robert had been to
Brampton."

"Yes," said Flint, "the whole village knew it."

"Good God!" cried Mr. Worthington again, "why was I not informed of
this? Why was I not warned of this? Have I no friends? Do you pretend to
look after my interests and not take the trouble to write me on such a
subject."

"Do you think I could have prevented it?" asked Mr. Flint, very calmly.

"You allow this--this woman to come here to Brampton and teach school in
a place where she can further her designs? What were you about?"

"When the prudential committee appointed her, nothing of this was known,
Mr. Worthington."

"Yes, but now--now! What are you doing, what are they doing to allow her
to remain? Who are on that committee?"

Mr. Flint named the men. They had been reelected, as usual, at the
recent town-meeting. Mr. Errol, who had also been reelected, had
returned but had not yet issued the certificate or conducted the
examination.

"Send for them, have them here at once," commanded Mr. Worthington,
without listening to this.

"If you take my advice, you will do nothing of the kind," said Mr.
Flint, who, as usual, had the whole situation at his fingers' ends.
He had taken the trouble to inform himself about the girl, and he had
discovered, shrewdly enough, that she was the kind which might be led,
but not driven. If Mr. Flint's advice had been listened to, this story
might have had quite a different ending. But Mr. Flint had not reached
the stage where his advice was always listened to, and he had a maddened
man to deal with now. At that moment, as if fate had determined