had he desired the gift of
speech as now. Had it not been for him; Cynthia might have been Robert
Worthington's wife. He sat down beside her and put his hand over hers
that lay on the letter in her lap. It was the only answer he could make,
but perhaps it was the best, after all. Of what use were words at such a
time!

Four days afterward, on a Monday morning, she went back to Brampton to
begin the new term.

That same Monday a circumstance of no small importance took place in
Brampton--nothing less than the return, after a prolonged absence in the
West and elsewhere, of its first citizen. Isaac D. Worthington was again
in residence. No bells were rung, indeed, and no delegation of citizens
as such, headed by the selectmen, met him at the station; and other
feudal expressions of fealty were lacking. No staff flew Mr.
Worthington's arms; nevertheless the lord of Brampton was in his castle
again, and Brampton felt that he was there. He arrived alone, wearing the
silk hat which had become habitual with him now, and stepping into his
barouche at the station had been driven up Brampton Street behind his
grays, looking neither to the right nor left. His reddish chop whiskers
seemed to cling a little more closely to his face than formerly, and long
years of compression made his mouth look sterner than ever. A hawk-like
man, Isaac Worthington, to be reckoned with and feared, whether in a
frock coat or in breastplate and mail.

His seneschal, Mr. Flint, was awaiting him in the library. Mr. Flint was
large and very ugly, big-boned, smooth-shaven, with coarse features all
askew, and a large nose with many excrescences, and thick lips. He was
forty-two. From a foreman of the mills he had risen, step by step, to his
present position, which no one seemed able to define. He was, indeed, a
seneschal. He managed the mills in his lord's absence, and--if the truth
be told--in his presence; knotty questions of the Truro Railroad were
brought to Mr. Flint and submitted to Mr. Worthington, who decided them,
with Mr. Flint's advice; and, within the last three months, Mr. Flint had
invaded the realm of politics, quietly, as such a man would, under the
cover of his patron's name and glory. Mr. Flint it was who had bought the
Newcastle Guardian, who went occasionally to Newcastle and spoke a few
effective words now and then to the editor; and, if the truth will out,
Mr. Flint had largely conceived that scheme about the railroads which was
to