He spoke well of Cyprian Eveleth.  A good young man,—­limited, but exemplary.  Would succeed well as rector of a small parish.  That required little talent, but a good deal of the humbler sort of virtue.  As for himself, he confessed to ambition,—­yes, a great deal of ambition.  A failing, he supposed, but not the worst of failings.  He felt the instinct to handle the larger interests of society.  The village would perhaps lose sight of him for a time; but he meant to emerge sooner or later in the higher spheres of government or diplomacy.  Myrtle must keep his secret.  Nobody else knew it.  He could not help making a confidant of her,—­a thing he had never done before with any other person as to his plans in life.  Perhaps she might watch his career with more interest from her acquaintance with him.  He loved to think that there was one woman at least who would be pleased to hear of his success if he succeeded, as with life and health he would,—­who would share his disappointment if fate should not favor him.—­So he wound and wreathed himself into her thoughts.

It was not very long before Myrtle began to accept the idea that she was the one person in the world whose peculiar duty it was to sympathize with the aspiring young man whose humble beginnings she had the honor of witnessing.  And it is not very far from being the solitary confidant, and the single source of inspiration, to the growth of a livelier interest, where a young man and a young woman are in question.

Myrtle was at this time her own mistress as never before.  The three young men had access to her as she walked to and from meeting and in her frequent rambles, besides the opportunities Cyprian had of meeting her in his sister’s company, and the convenient visits which, in connection with the great lawsuit, Murray Bradshaw could make, without question, at The Poplars.

It was not long before Cyprian perceived that he could never pass a certain boundary of intimacy with Myrtle.  Very pleasant and sisterly always she was with him; but she never looked as if she might mean more than she said, and cherished a little spark of sensibility which might be fanned into the flame of love.  Cyprian felt this so certainly that he was on the point of telling his grief to Bathsheba, who looked to him as if she would sympathize as heartily with him as his own sister, and whose sympathy would have a certain flavor in it,—­something which one cannot find in the heart of the dearest sister that ever lived.  But Bathsheba was herself sensitive, and changed color when Cyprian ventured a hint or two in the direction of his thought, so that he never got so fax as to unburden his heart to her about Myrtle, whom she admired so sincerely that she could not have helped feeling a great interest in his passion towards her.