And Cynthia?  Happily, Cynthia passed the day in ignorance that Jethro had gone through Brampton.  Ephraim, though he knew of it, did not speak of it when he came home to his dinner; Mr. Graves had called, and informed her of the meeting in the town hall that night.

“It is our only chance,” he said obdurately, in answer to her protests.  “We must lay the case before the people of Brampton.  If they have not the courage to right the wrong, and force your reinstatement through public opinion, there is nothing more to be done.”

To Cynthia, the idea of having a mass meeting concerning herself was particularly repellent.

“Oh, Judge Graves!” she cried, “if there isn’t any other way, please drop the matter.  There are plenty of teachers who will—­be acceptable to everybody.”

“Cynthia,” said the judge, “I can understand that this publicity is very painful to you.  I beg you to remember that we are contending for a principle.  In such cases the individual must be sacrificed to the common good.”

“But I cannot go to the meeting—­I cannot.”

“No,” said the judge; “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

After he was gone, she could think of nothing but the horror of having her name—­yes, and her character—­discussed in that public place; and it seemed to her, if she listened, she could hear a clatter of tongues throughout the length of Brampton Street, and that she must fain stop her ears or go mad.  The few ladies who called during the day out of kindness or curiosity, or both, only added to her torture.  She was not one who could open her heart to acquaintances:  the curious ones got but little satisfaction, and the kind ones thought her cold, and they did not perceive that she was really grateful for their little attentions.  Gratitude, on such occasions, does not always consist in pouring out one’s troubles in the laps of visitors.

So the visitors went home, wondering whether it were worth while after all to interest themselves in the cause of such a self-contained and self-reliant young woman.  In spite of all her efforts, Cynthia had never wholly succeeded in making most of the Brampton ladies believe that she did not secretly deem herself above them.  They belonged to a reserved race themselves; but Cynthia had a reserve which was even different from their own.

As night drew on the predictions of Mr. Worthington seemed likely to be fulfilled, and it looked as if Judge Graves would have a useless bill to pay for gas in the new town hall.  The judge had never been a man who could compel a following, and he had no magnetism with which to lead a cause:  the town tradesmen, especially those in the new brick block, would be chary as to risking the displeasure of their best customer.  At half-past seven Mr. Graves:  came in, alone, and sat on the platform staring grimly at his gas.  Is there a lecturer, or, a playwright, or a politician, who has not, at one time or another, been in the judge’s place?  Who cannot sympathize with him as he watched the thin and hesitating stream of people out of the corner of his eye as they came in at the door?  The judge despised them with all his soul, but it is human nature not to wish to sit in a hall or a theatre that is three-quarters empty.