“Jethro,” she said, “do you know why I came here—­why I came to you?”

“No,” he said.  “No.  W—­wanted me, didn’t you?  Wanted me—­I wanted you, Cynthy.”

“I would never have come to you for that,” she cried, “never!”

“L-love me, Cynthy—­love me, don’t you?”

How could he ask, seeing that she had been in his arms, and had not fled?  And yet she must go through with what she had come to do, at any cost.

“Jethro, I have come to speak to you about the town meeting tomorrow.”

He halted as though he had been struck, his hand tightening over the locket.

“T-town meetin’?”

“Yes.  All this new organization is your doing,” she cried.  “Do you think that I am foolish enough to believe that Fletcher Bartlett or Sam Price planned this thing?  No, Jethro.  I know who has done it, and I could have told them if they had asked me.”

He looked at her, and the light of a new admiration was in his eye.

“Knowed it—­did you?”

“Yes,” she answered, a little defiantly, “I did.”

“H-how’d you know it—­how’d you know it, Cynthy?” How did she know it, indeed?

“I guessed it,” said Cynthia, desperately, “knowing you, I guessed it.”

“A-always thought you was smart, Cynthy.”

“Tell me, did you do this thing?”

“Th-thought you knowed it—­th-thought you knowed.”

“I believe that these men are doing your bidding.”

“Hain’t you guessin’ a little mite too much; Cynthy?”

“Jethro,” she said, “you told me just now that—­that you loved me.  Don’t touch me!” she cried, when he would have taken her in his arms again.  “If you love me, you will tell me why you have done such a thing.”

What instinct there was in the man which forbade him speaking out to her, I know not.  I do believe that he would have confessed, if he could.  Isaac Worthington had been impelled to reveal his plans and aspirations, but Jethro Bass was as powerless in this supreme moment of his life as was Coniston Mountain to move the granite on which it stood.  Cynthia’s heart sank, and a note of passionate appeal came into her voice.

“Oh, Jethro!” she cried, “this is not the way to use your power, to compel men like Eben Williams and Samuel Todd and—­and Lyman Hull, who is a drunkard and a vagabond, to come in and vote for those who are not fit to hold office.”  She was using the minister’s own arguments.  “We have always had clean men, and honorable and good men.”

He did not speak, but dropped his hands to his sides.  His thoughts were not to be fathomed, yet Cynthia took the movement for silent confession,—­which it was not, and stood appalled at the very magnitude of his accomplishment, astonished at the secrecy he had maintained.  She had heard that his name had been mentioned in the meeting at the house of Moses Hatch as having taken part in the matter, and she guessed something of certain of his methods.  But she had felt his force, and knew that this was not the only secret of his power.