and suddenly recalled the fact that
he was a church member. "What inscription do you wish put into it?" he
asked, recovering himself with an effort.

Jethro thrust his hand into his pocket, and again the cowhide wallet came
out. He tendered Mr. Judson a somewhat soiled piece of paper, and Mr.
Judson read:--

"Cynthy, from Jethro"

"Cynthy," Mr. Judson repeated, in a tremulous voice, "Cynthy, not
Cynthia."

"H-how is it written," said Jethro, leaning over it, "h-how is it
written?"

"Cynthy," answered Mr. Judson, involuntarily.

"Then make it Cynthy--make it Cynthy."

"Cynthy it shall be," said Mr. Judson, with conviction.

"When'll you have it done?"

"To-night," replied Mr. Judson, with a twinkle in his eye, "to-night, as
a special favor."

"What time--w-what time?"

"Seven o'clock, sir. May I send it to your hotel? The Tremont House, I
suppose?"

"I-I'll call," said Jethro, so solemnly that Mr. Judson kept his laughter
until he was gone.

From the door they watched him silently as he strode across the street
and turned the corner. Then Mr. Judson turned. "That man will make his
mark, William," he said; and added thoughtfully, "but whether for good or
evil, I know not."

CHAPTER IV

What Cynthia may have thought or felt during Jethro's absence in Boston,
and for some months thereafter, she kept to herself. Honest Moses Hatch
pursued his courting untroubled, and never knew that he had a rival.
Moses would as soon have questioned the seasons or the weather as
Cynthia's changes of moods,--which were indeed the weather for him, and
when storms came he sat with his back to them, waiting for the sunshine.
He had long ceased proposing marriage, in the firm belief that Cynthia
would set the day in her own good time. Thereby he was saved much
suffering.

The summer flew on apace, for Coniston. Fragrant hay was cut on hillsides
won from rock and forest, and Coniston Water sang a gentler melody--save
when the clouds floated among the spruces on the mountain and the rain
beat on the shingles. During the still days before the turn of the
year,--days of bending fruit boughs, crab-apples glistening red in the
soft sunlight,--rumor came from Brampton to wrinkle the forehead of Moses
Hatch as he worked among his father's orchards.

The rumor was of a Mr. Isaac Dudley Worthington, a name destined to make
much rumor before it was to be carved on the marble. Isaac D.
Worthington, indeed, might by a s