the uplifting of a sex, a delightful wavy floor covered with a rose
carpet; and, needless to add, not a pin or a pair of scissors out of
place in the whole apartment.

There is no intention of enriching these pages with Miss Lucretia's
homilies. Their subject-matter may be found in the files of the Woman's
Hour. She did not always preach, although many people will not believe
this statement. Miss Lucretia, too, had a heart, though she kept it
hidden away, only to be brought out on occasions when she was sure of its
appreciation, and she grew strangely interested in this self-contained
girl from Coniston whose mother she had known. Miss Lucretia understood
Cynthia, who also was the kind who kept her heart hidden, the kind who
conceal their troubles and sufferings because they find it difficult to
give them out. So Miss Lucretia had Cynthia to take supper with her at
least once in the week, and watched her quietly, and let her speak of as
much of her life as she chose--which was not much, at first. But Miss
Lucretia was content to wait, and guessed at many things which Cynthia
did not tell her, and made some personal effort, unknown to Cynthia, to
find out other things. It will be said that she had designs on the girl.
If so, they were generous designs; and perhaps it was inevitable that
Miss Lucretia should recognize in every young woman of spirit and brains
a possible recruit for the cause.

It has now been shown in some manner and as briefly as possible how
Cynthia's life had changed, and what it had become. We have got her
partly through the winter, and find her still dreaming of the sparkling
snow on Coniston and of the wind whirling it on clear, cold days like
smoke among the spruces; of Uncle Jethro sitting by his stove through the
long evenings all alone; of Rias in his store and Moses Hatch and Lem
Hallowell, and Cousin Ephraim in his new post-office. Uncle Jethro wrote
for the first time in his life--letters: short letters, but in his own
handwriting, and deserving of being read for curiosity's sake if there
were time. The wording was queer enough and guarded enough, but they were
charged with a great affection which clung to them like lavender.

And Cynthia kept them every one, and read them over on such occasions
when she felt that she could not live another minute out of sight of her
mountain.

Such was the state of affairs one gray afternoon in December when
Cynthia, who was sitting in Mrs. Merrill's par