Public opinion is like the wind—­it bloweth where it listeth.  It whistled around Brampton the next day, whirling husbands and wives apart, and families into smithereens.  Brampton had a storm all to itself—­save for a sympathetic storm raging in Coniston—­and all about a school-teacher.

Had Cynthia been a certain type of woman, she would have had all the men on her side and all of her own sex against her.  It is a decided point to be recorded in her favor that she had among her sympathizers as many women as men.  But the excitement of a day long remembered in Brampton began, for her, when a score or more of children assembled in front of the little house, tramping down the snow on the grass plots, shouting for her to come to school with them.  Children give no mortgages, or keep no hardware stores.

Cynthia, trying to read in front of the fire, was all in a tremble at the sound of the high-pitched little voices she had grown to love, and she longed to go out and kiss them, every one.  Her nature, however, shrank from any act which might appear dramatic or sensational.  She could not resist going to the window and smiling at them, though they appeared but dimly—­little dancing figures in a mist.  And when they shouted, the more she shook her head and put her finger to her lips in reproof and vanished from their sight.  Then they trooped sadly on to school, resolved to make matters as disagreeable as possible for poor Miss Bruce, who had not offended in any way.

Two other episodes worthy of a place in this act of the drama occurred that morning, and one had to do with Ephraim.  Poor Ephraim!  His way had ever been to fight and ask no questions, and in his journey through the world he had gathered but little knowledge of it.  He had limped home the night before in a state of anger of which Cynthia had not believed him capable, and had reappeared in the sitting room in his best suit of blue.

“Where are you going, Cousin Eph?” Cynthia had asked suspiciously.

“Never you mind, Cynthy.”

“But I do mind,” she said, catching hold of his sleeve.  “I won’t let you go until you confess.”

“I’m a-goin’ to tell Isaac Worthington what I think of him, that’s whar I’m a-goin’,” cried Ephraim “what I always hev thought of him sence he sent a substitute to the war an’ acted treasonable here to home talkin’ ag’in’ Lincoln.”

“Oh, Cousin Eph, you mustn’t,” said Cynthia, clinging to him with all her strength in her dismay.  It had taken every whit of her influence to persuade him to relinquish his purpose.  Cynthia knew very well that Ephraim meant to lay hands on Mr. Worthington, and it would indeed have been a disastrous hour for the first citizen if the old soldier had ever got into his library.  Cynthia pointed out, as best she might, that it would be an evil hour for her, too, and that her cause would be greatly injured by such a proceeding; she knew very well that it would ruin Ephraim, but he would not have listened to such an argument.