Cynthia stopped at sight of it.  What had been her misery and affliction compared to this?  Her limbs refused her, though she knew not whether she would have fled or rushed into his arms.  How long she stood thus, and he stood, may not be said, but at length he put down his foot and took the saw from his knee, his eyes fell upon her, and his lips spoke her name.

“Cynthy!”

Speechless, she ran to him and flung her arms about his neck, and he dropped the saw and held her tightly—­even as he had held that other Cynthia in that place in the year gone by.  And yet not so.  Now he clung to her with a desperation that was terrible, as though to let go of her would be to fall into nameless voids beyond human companionship and love.  But at last he did release her, and stood looking down into her face, as if seeking to read a sentence there.

And how was she to pronounce that sentence!  Though her faith might be taken away, her love remained, and grew all the greater because he needed it.  Yet she knew that no subterfuge or pretence would avail her to hide why she had come.  She could not hide it.  It must be spoken out now, though death was preferable.

And he was waiting.  Did he guess?  She could not tell.  He had spoken no word but her name.  He had expressed no surprise at her appearance, asked no reasons for it.  Superlatives of suffering or joy or courage are hard to convey—­words fall so far short of the feeling.  And Cynthia’s pain was so far beyond tears.

“Uncle Jethro,” she said, “yesterday something—­something happened.  I could not stay in Boston any longer.”

He nodded.

“I had to come to you.  I could not wait.”

He nodded again.

“I—­I read something.”  To take a white-hot iron and sear herself would have been easier than this.

“Yes,” he said.

She felt that the look was coming again—­the look which she had surprised in his face.  His hands dropped lifelessly from her shoulders, and he turned and went to the door, where he stood with his back to her, silhouetted against the eastern sky all pink from the reflection of sunset.  He would not help her.  Perhaps he could not.  The things were true.  There had been a grain of hope within her, ready to sprout.

“I read two articles from the Newcastle Guardian about you—­about your life.”

“Yes,” he said.  But he did not turn.

“How you had—­how you had earned your living.  How you had gained your power,” she went on, her pain lending to her voice an exquisite note of many modulations.

“Yes—­Cynthy,” he said, and still stared at the eastern sky.

She took two steps toward him, her arms outstretched, her fingers opening and closing.  And then she stopped.

“I would believe no one,” she said, “I will believe no one—­until—­unless you tell me.  Uncle Jethro,” she cried in agony, “Uncle Jethro, tell me that those things are not true!”