e this
bill, Mr. Worthington," he insisted, not at all abashed. "Jethro Bass
sent it--you understand--it's engrossed."

Whereupon Mr. Bixby drew from his capacious pocket a roll, tied with
white ribbon, and pressed it into Mr. Worthington's hands. It was the
Truro Franchise Bill.

It is safe to say that Mr. Worthington understood.

CHAPTER XVI

There are certain instruments used by scientists so delicate that they
have to be wrapped in cotton wool and kept in ductless places, and so
sensitive that the slightest shock will derange them. And there are
certain souls which cannot stand the jars of life--souls created to
register thoughts and sentiments too fine for those of coarser
construction. Such was the soul of the storekeeper of Coniston. Whether
or not he was one of those immortalized in the famous Elegy, it is not
for us to say. A celebrated poet who read the letters to the Guardian--at
Miss Lucretia Penniman's request--has declared Mr. Wetherell to have been
a genius. He wrote those letters, as we know, after he had piled his
boxes and rolled his barrels into place; after he had added up the
columns in his ledger and recorded, each week, the small but ever
increasing deficit which he owed to Jethro Bass. Could he have been
removed from the barrels and the ledgers, and the debts and the cares and
the implications, what might we have had from his pen? That will never be
known.

We left him in the lobby of the Opera House, but he did not go in to see
the final act of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." He made his way, alone, back to the
hotel, slipped in by a side entrance, and went directly to his room,
where Cynthia found him, half an hour later, seated by the open window in
the dark.

"Aren't you well, Dad?" she asked anxiously. "Why didn't you come to see
the play?"

"I--I was detained Cynthia," he said. "Yes--I am well."

She sat down beside him and felt his forehead and his hands, and the
events of the evening which were on her lips to tell him remained
unspoken.

"You ought not to have left Coniston," she said; "the excitement is too
much for you. We will go back tomorrow."

"Yes, Cynthia, we will go back to-morrow."

"In the morning?"

"On the early train," said Wetherell, "and now you must go to sleep."

"I am glad," said Cynthia, as she kissed him good night. "I have enjoyed
it here, and I am grateful to Uncle Jethro for bringing us, but--but I
like Coniston best."

William Wetherell could have s