ble girl, Cynthia," said Miss Lucretia, involuntarily.
Then she paused for a moment. "Suppose he tells you they are true? You
surely can't live with him again, Cynthia."

"Do you suppose I am going to desert him, Miss Lucretia?" she asked. "He
loves me, and--and I love him." This was the first time her voice had
faltered. "He kept my father from want and poverty, and he has brought me
up as a daughter. If his life has been as you say, I shall make my own
living!"

"How?" demanded Miss Lucretia, the practical part of her coming
uppermost.

"I shall teach school. I believe I can get a position, in a place where I
can see him often. I can break his heart, Miss Lucretia, I--I can bring
sadness to myself, but I will not desert him."

Miss Lucretia stared at her for a moment, not knowing what to say or do.
She perceived that the girl had a spirit as strong as her own: that her
plans were formed, her mind made up, and that no arguments could change
her.

"Why did you come to me?" she asked irrelevantly.

"Because I thought that you would have read the articles, and I knew if
you had, you would have taken the trouble to inform yourself of the
world's opinion."

Again Miss Lucretia stared at her.

"I will go to Coniston with you," she said, "at least as far as
Brampton."

Cynthia's face softened a little at the words.

"I would rather go alone, Miss Lucretia," she answered gently, but with
the same firmness. "I--I am very grateful to you for your kindness to me
in Boston. I shall not forget it--or you. Good-by, Miss Lucretia."

But Miss Lucretia, sobbing openly, gathered the girl in her arms and
pressed her. Age was coming on her indeed, that she should show such
weakness. For a long time she could not trust herself to speak, and then
her words were broken. Cynthia must come to her at the first sign of
doubt or trouble: this, Miss Lucretia's house, was to be a refuge in any
storm that life might send--and Miss Lucretia's heart. Cynthia promised,
and when she went out at last through the little door her own tears were
falling, for she loved Miss Lucretia.

Cynthia was going to Coniston. That journey was as fixed, as inevitable,
as things mortal can be. She would go to Coniston unless she perished on
the way. No loving entreaties, no fears of Mrs. Merrill or her daughters,
were of any avail. Mrs. Merrill too, was awed by the vastness of the
girl's sorrow, and wondered if her own nature were small by comparison.
She