d thought and
chopped wood in the tannery shed as usual. Never, I believe, did man,
shorn of power, accept his lot more quietly. His struggle was over, his
battle was fought, a greater peace than he had ever thought to hope for
was won. For the opinion and regard of the world he had never cared. A
greater reward awaited him, greater than any knew--the opinion and regard
and the praise of one whom he loved beyond all the world. On Friday she
came to him, on Friday at sunset, for the days were growing longer, and
that was the happiest sunset of his life. She said nothing as she raised
her face to his and kissed him and clung to him in the little parlor, but
he knew, and he had his reward. So much for earthly power Cynthia brought
the little rawhide trunk this time, and came to Coniston for the March
vacation--a happy two weeks that was soon gone. Happy by comparison, that
is, with what they both had suffered, and a haven of rest after the
struggle and despair of the wilderness. The bond between them had, in
truth, never been stronger, for both the young girl and the old man had
denied themselves the thing they held most dear. Jethro had taken refuge
and found comfort in his love. But Cynthia! Her greatest love had now
been bestowed elsewhere.

If there were letters for the tannery house, Milly Skinner, who made it a
point to meet the stage, brought them. And there were letters during
Cynthia's sojourn,--many of them, bearing the Cambridge postmark. One
evening it was Jethro who laid the letter on the table beside her as she
sat under the lamp. He did not look at her or speak, but she felt that he
knew her secret--felt that he deserved to have from her own lips what he
had been too proud--yes--and too humble to ask. Whose sympathy could she
be sure of, if not of his? Still she had longed to keep this treasure to
herself. She took the letter in her hand.

"I do not answer them, Uncle Jethro, but--I cannot prevent his writing
them," she faltered. She did not confess that she kept them, every one,
and read them over and over again; that she had grown, indeed, to look
forward to them as to a sustenance. "I--I do love him, but I will not
marry him."

Yes, she could be sure of Jethro's sympathy, though he could not express
it in words. Yet she had not told him for this. She had told him, much as
the telling had hurt her, because she feared to cut him more deeply by
her silence.

It was a terrible moment for Jethro, and never