rthington knew he had gone too far. A certain kind of
an eye is an incomparable weapon, and armed men have been cowed by those
who possess it, though otherwise defenceless. Jethro Bass had that kind
of an eye.

"G-guess you wouldn't understand if I was to tell you," he said.

Mr. Worthington walked to the window again, perhaps to compose himself,
and then came back again.

"Your proposition is," he said at length, "that if I give my consent
to this marriage, we are to have Bixby and the governor, and the
Consolidation Bill will become a law. Is that it?"

"Th-that's it," said Jethro, taking his accustomed seat.

"And this consent is to be given when the bill becomes a law?"

"Given now. T-to-night."

Mr. Worthington took another turn as far as the door, and suddenly came
and stood before Jethro.

"Well, I consent."

Jethro nodded toward the table.

"Er--pen and paper there," he said.

"What do you want me to do?" demanded Mr. Worthington.

"W-write to Bob--write to Cynthy. Nice letters."

"This is carrying matters with too high a hand, Mr. Bass. I will write
the letters to-morrow morning." It was intolerable that he, the first
citizen of Brampton, should have to submit to such humiliation.

"Write 'em now. W-want to see 'em."

"But if I give you my word they will be written and sent to you
to-morrow afternoon?"

"T-too late," said Jethro; "sit down and write 'em now."

Mr. Worthington went irresolutely to the table, stood for a minute,
and dropped suddenly into the chair there. He would have given anything
(except the realization of his ambitions) to have marched out of the
room and to have slammed the door behind him. The letter paper and
envelopes which Jethro had bought stood in a little pile, and Mr.
Worthington picked up the pen. The clock struck two as he wrote the
date, as though to remind him that he had written it wrong. If Flint
could see him now! Would Flint guess? Would anybody guess? He stared at
the white paper, and his rage came on again like a gust of wind, and he
felt that he would rather beg in the streets than write such a thing.
And yet--and yet he sat there. Surely Jethro Bass must have known that
he could have taken no more exquisite vengeance than this, to compel a
man--and such a man--to sit down in the white heat of passion--and write
two letters of forgiveness! Jethro sat by the window, to all appearances
oblivious to the tortures of his victim.

He who has tried to write