The black trotters covered the ten miles in much quicker time than Lem Hallowell could do it in his stage, but the distance seemed endless to Bob.  It was not much more than half an hour after he had left Brampton Street, however, that he shot past the store, and by the time Rias Richardson in his carpet slippers reached the platform the cutter was in front of the tannery house, and the trotters, with their sides smoking, were pawing up the snow under the butternut tree.

Bob leaped out, hurried up the path, and knocked at the door.  It was opened by Jethro Bass himself!

“How do you do, Mr. Bass,” said the young man, gravely, and he held out his hand.  Jethro gave him such a scrutinizing look as he had given many a man whose business he cared to guess, but Bob looked fearlessly into his eyes.  Jethro took his hand.

“C-come in,” he said.

Bob went into that little room where Jethro and Cynthia had spent so many nights together, and his glance flew straight to the picture on the wall,—­the portrait of Cynthia Wetherell in crimson and seed pearls, so strangely set amidst such surroundings.  His glance went to the portrait, and his feet followed, as to a lodestone.  He stood in front of it for many minutes, in silence, and Jethro watched him.  At last he turned.

“Where is she?” he asked.

It was a queer question, and Jethro’s answer was quite as lacking in convention.

“G-gone to Brampton—­gone to Brampton.”

“Gone to Brampton!  Do you mean to say—?  What is she doing there?” Bob demanded.

“Teachin’ school,” said Jethro; “g-got Miss Goddard’s place.”

Bob did not reply for a moment.  The little schoolhouse was the only building in Brampton he had glanced at as he came through.  Mrs. Merrill had told him that she might take that place, but he had little imagined she was already there on her platform facing the rows of shining little faces at the desks.  He had deemed it more than possible that he might see Jethro at Coniston, but he had not taken into account that which he might say to him.  Bob had, indeed, thought of nothing but Cynthia, and of the blow that had fallen upon her.  He had tried to realize the, multiple phases of the situation which confronted him.  Here was the man who, by the conduct of his life, had caused the blow; he, too, was her benefactor; and again, this same man was engaged in the bitterest of conflicts with his father, Isaac D. Worthington, and it was this conflict which had precipitated that blow.  Bob could not have guessed, by looking at Jethro Bass, how great was the sorrow which had fallen upon him.  But Bob knew that Jethro hated his father, must hate him now, because of Cynthia, with a hatred given to few men to feel.  He thought that Jethro would crush Mr. Worthington and ruin him if he could; and Bob believed he could.

What was he to say?  He did not fear Jethro, for Bob Worthington had courage enough; but these things were running in his mind, and he felt the power of the man before him, as all men did.  Bob went to the window and came back again.  He knew that he must speak.