“But I am not engaged to him,” said Cynthia.

“He will be here shortly, I imagine,” said Mr. Worthington.

Cynthia was trembling more than ever by this time.  She was very angry, and she had found it very difficult to repress the things which she had been impelled to speak.  She did not hate Isaac Worthington now—­she despised him.  He had not dared to mention Jethro, who had been her benefactor, though he had done his best to have her removed from the school because of her connection with Jethro.

“Mr. Worthington,” she said, “I have not yet made up my mind whether I shall marry your son.”

To say that Mr. Worthington’s breath was taken away when he heard these words would be to use a mild expression.  He doubted his senses.

“What?” he exclaimed, starting forward, “what do you mean?”

Cynthia hesitated a moment.  She was not frightened, but she was trying to choose her words without passion.

“I refused to marry him,” she said, “because you withheld your consent, and I did not wish to be the cause of a quarrel between you.  It was not difficult to guess your feelings toward me, even before certain things occurred of which I will not speak.  I did my best, from the very first, to make Bob give up the thought of marrying me, although I loved and honored him.  Loving him as I do, I do not want to be the cause of separating him from his father, and of depriving him of that which is rightfully his.  But something was due to myself.  If I should ever make up my mind to marry him,” continued Cynthia, looking at Mr. Worthington steadfastly, “it will not be because your consent is given or withheld.”

“Do you tell me this to my face?” exclaimed Mr. Worthington, now in a rage himself at such unheard-of presumption.

“To your face,” said Cynthia, who got more self-controlled as he grew angry.  “I believe that that consent, which you say you have given freely, was wrung from you.”

It was unfortunate that the first citizen might not always have Mr. Flint by him to restrain and caution him.  But Mr. Flint could have no command over his master’s sensations, and anger and apprehension goaded Mr. Worthington to indiscretion.

“Jethro Bass told you this!” he cried out.

“No,” Cynthia answered, not in the least surprised by the admission, “he did not tell me—­but he will if I ask him.  I guessed it from your letter.  I heard that he had come back to-day, and I went to Coniston to see him, and he told me—­he had been defeated.”

Tears came into her eyes at the remembrance of the scene in the tannery house that afternoon, and she knew now why Jethro’s face had worn that look of peace.  He had made his supreme sacrifice—­for her.  No, he had told her nothing, and she might never have known.  She sat thinking of the magnitude of this thing Jethro had done, and she ceased to speak, and the tears coursed down her cheeks unheeded.