him. That
very evening, Moses Hatch had called, had been received with more favor
than usual, and suddenly packed off about his business. Seated in the
moonlight, the minister wondered vaguely whether Jethro Bass were
troubling the girl. And now Jethro stood before him, holding out a book.
Rising, Mr. Ware bade him good evening, mildly and cordially.

"C-come to leave this book for Cynthy," said Jethro.

Mr. Ware took it, mechanically.

"Have you finished it?" he asked kindly.

"All I want," replied Jethro, "all I want."

He turned, and went down the slope. Twice the words rose to the
minister's lips to call him back, and were suppressed. Yet what to say to
him if he came? Mr. Ware sat down again, sadly wondering why Jethro Bass
should be so difficult to talk to.

The parsonage was of only one story, with a steep, sloping roof. On the
left of the doorway was Cynthia's room, and the minister imagined he
heard a faint, rustling noise at her window. Presently he arose, barred
the door; could be heard moving around in his room for a while, and
after that all was silence save for the mournful crying of a whippoorwill
in the woods. Then a door opened softly, a white vision stole into the
little entry lighted by the fan-window, above, seized the book and stole
back. Had the minister been a prying man about his household, he would
have noticed next day that Cynthia's candle was burned down to the
socket. He saw nothing of the kind: he saw, in fact, that his daughter
flitted about the house singing, and he went out into the sun to drop
potatoes.

No sooner had he reached the barn than this singing ceased. But how was
Mr. Ware to know that?

Twice Cynthia, during the week that followed, got halfway down the slope
of the parsonage hill, the book under her arm, on her way to the tannery;
twice went back, tears of humiliation and self-pity in her eyes at the
thought that she should make advances to a man, and that man the tanner's
son. Her household work done, a longing for further motion seized her,
and she walked out under the maples of the village street. Let it be
understood that Coniston was a village, by courtesy, and its shaded road
a street. Suddenly, there was the tannery, Jethro standing in front of
it, contemplative. Did he see her? Would he come to her? Cynthia, seized
by a panic of shame, flew into Aunt Lucy Prescott's, sat through half an
hour of torture while Aunt Lucy talked of redemption of sinners, during