Cynthia was going to Coniston.  That journey was as fixed, as inevitable, as things mortal can be.  She would go to Coniston unless she perished on the way.  No loving entreaties, no fears of Mrs. Merrill or her daughters, were of any avail.  Mrs. Merrill too, was awed by the vastness of the girl’s sorrow, and wondered if her own nature were small by comparison.  She had wept, to be sure, at her husband’s confession, and lain awake over it in the night watches, and thought of the early days of their marriage.

And then, Mrs. Merrill told herself, Cynthia would have to talk with Mr. Merrill.  How was he to come unscathed out of that?  There was pain and bitterness in that thought, and almost resentment against Cynthia, quivering though she was with sympathy for the girl.  For Mrs. Merrill, though the canker remained, had already pardoned her husband and had asked the forgiveness of God for that pardon.  On other occasions, in other crisis, she had waited and watched for him in the parlor window, and to-night she was at the door before his key was in the lock, while he was still stamping the snow from his boots.  She drew him into the room and told him what had happened.

“Oh, Stephen,” she cried, “what are you going to say to her?”

What, indeed?  His wife had sorrowed, but she had known the obstacles and perils by which he had been beset.  But what was he to say to Cynthia?  Her very name had grown upon him, middle-aged man of affairs though he was, until the thought of it summoned up in his mind a figure of purity, and of the strength which was from purity.  He would not have believed it possible that the country girl whom they had taken into their house three months before should have wrought such an influence over them all.

Even in the first hour of her sorrow which she had spent that afternoon in the parlor, Cynthia had thought of Mr. Merrill.  He could tell her whether those accusations were true or false, for he was a friend of Jethro’s.  Her natural impulse—­the primeval one of a creature which is hurt—­had been to hide herself; to fly to her own room, and perhaps by nightfall the courage would come to her to ask him the terrible questions.  He was a friend of Jethro’s.  An illuminating flash revealed to her the meaning of that friendship—­if the accusations were true.  It was then she had thought of Miss Lucretia Penniman, and somehow she had found the courage to face the sunlight and go to her.  She would spare Mr. Merrill.

But had she spared him?  Sadly the family sat down to supper without her, and after supper Mr. Merrill sent a message to his club that he could not attend a committee meeting there that evening.  He sat with his wife in the little writing room, he pretending to read and she pretending to sew, until the silence grew too oppressive, and they spoke of the matter that was in their hearts.  It was one of the bitterest evenings in Mr. Merrill’s life, and there is no need to linger on it.  They talked earnestly of Cynthia, and of her future.  But they both knew why she did not come down to them.