And now that he had quarrelled with his father for her sake, and was bent with all the determination of his character upon making his own way in the world, what was she to do?  What was her duty?  Not one letter of the twoscore she had received (so she kept their count from day to day)—­not one had she answered.  His faith had indeed been great.  But she must answer this:  must write, too, on that subject of her dismissal, lest it should be wrongly told him.  He was rash in his anger, and fearless; this she knew, and loved him for such qualities as he had.

She must stay in Brampton and do her work,—­so much was clearly her duty, although she longed to flee from it.  And at last she sat down and wrote to him.  Some things are too sacred to be set forth on a printed page, and this letter is one of those things.  Try as she would, she could not find it in her heart at such a time to destroy his hope,—­or her own.  The hope which she would not acknowledge, and the love which she strove to conceal from him seeped up between the words of her letter like water through grains of sand.  Words, indeed, are but as grains of sand to conceal strong feelings, and as Cynthia read the letter over she felt that every line betrayed her, and knew that she could compose no lines which would not.

She said nothing of the summons which she had received that morning, or of her answer; and her account of the matter of the dismissal and reinstatement was brief and dignified, and contained no mention of Mr. Worthington’s name or agency.  It was her duty, too, to rebuke Bob for the quarrel with his father, to point out the folly of it, and the wrong, and to urge him as strongly as she could to retract, though she felt that all this was useless.  And then—­then came the betrayal of hope.  She could not ask him never to see her again, but she did beseech him for her sake, and for the sake of that love which he had declared, not to attempt to see her:  not for a year, she wrote, though the word looked to her like eternity.  Her reasons, aside from her own scruples, were so obvious, while she taught in Brampton, that she felt that he would consent to banishment—­until the summer holidays in July, at least:  and then she would be in Coniston,—­and would have had time to decide upon future steps.  A reprieve was all she craved,—­a reprieve in which to reflect, for she was in no condition to reflect now.  Of one thing she was sure, that it would not be right at this time to encourage him although she had a guilty feeling that the letter had given him encouragement in spite of all the prohibitions it contained.  “If, in the future years,” thought Cynthia, as she sealed the envelope, “he persists in his determination, what then?” You, Miss Lucretia, of all people in the world, have planted the seeds with your talk about Genesis!

The letter was signed “One who will always remain your friend, Cynthia Wetherell.”  And she posted it herself.