ied out.

"No," Cynthia answered, not in the least surprised by the admission, "he
did not tell me--but he will if I ask him. I guessed it from your letter.
I heard that he had come back to-day, and I went to Coniston to see him,
and he told me--he had been defeated."

Tears came into her eyes at the remembrance of the scene in the tannery
house that afternoon, and she knew now why Jethro's face had worn that
look of peace. He had made his supreme sacrifice--for her. No, he had
told her nothing, and she might never have known. She sat thinking of the
magnitude of this thing Jethro had done, and she ceased to speak, and the
tears coursed down her cheeks unheeded.

Isaac Worthington had a habit of clutching things when he was in a rage,
and now he clutched the arms of the chair. He had grown white. He was
furious with her, furious with himself for having spoken that which might
be construed into a confession. He had not finished writing the letters
before he had stood self-justified, and he had been self-justified ever
since. Where now were these arguments so wonderfully plausible? Where
were the refutations which he had made ready in case of a barely possible
need? He had gone into the Pelican House intending to tell Jethro of his
determination to agree to the marriage. That was one. He had done
so--that was another--and he had written the letters that Jethro might be
convinced of his good will. There were still more, involving Jethro's
character for veracity and other things. Summoning these, he waited for
Cynthia to have done speaking, but when she had finished--he said
nothing. He looked a her, and saw the tears on her face, and he saw that
she had completely forgotten his presence.

For the life of him, Isaac Worthington could not utter a word. He was a
man, as we know, who did not talk idly, and he knew that Cynthia would
not hear what he said; and arguments and denunciations lose their effect
when repeated. Again, he knew that she would not believe him. Never in
his life had Isaac Worthington been so ignored, so put to shame, as by
this school-teacher of Brampton. Before, self-esteem and sophistry had
always carried him off between them; sometimes, in truth, with a
wound--the wound had always healed. But he had a feeling, to-night, that
this woman had glanced into his soul, and had turned away from it. As he
looked at her the texture of his anger changed; he forgot for the first
time that which he had been pleas