Cynthia, driving back from Brampton in the gig, smiled at Aunt Lucy in the window, but she did not so much as glance at the tannery house farther on.  The tannery house, be it known, was the cottage where Jethro dwelt, and which had belonged to Nathan, his father; and the tannery sheds were at some distance behind it, nearer Coniston Water.  Cynthia did not glance at the tannery house, for a wave of orthodox indignation had swept over her:  at any rate, we may call it so.  In other words, she was angry with herself:  pitied and scorned herself, if the truth be told, for her actions—­an inevitable mood.

In front of the minister’s barn under the elms on the hill Cynthia pulled the harness from the tired horse with an energy that betokened activity of mind.  She was not one who shrank from self-knowledge, and the question put itself to her, “Whither was this matter tending?” The fire that is in strong men has ever been a lure to women; and many, meaning to play with it, have been burnt thereby since the world began.  But to turn the fire. to some use, to make the world better for it or stranger for it, that were an achievement indeed!  The horse munching his hay, Cynthia lingered as the light fainted above the ridge, with the thought that this might be woman’s province, and Miss Lucretia Penniman might go on leading her women regiments to no avail.  Nevertheless she was angry with Jethro, not because of what he had said, but because of what he was.

The next day is Sunday, and there is mild excitement in Coniston.  For Jethro Bass, still with the coonskin cap, but in a brass-buttoned coat secretly purchased in Brampton, appeared at meeting!  It made no difference that he entered quietly, and sat in the rear slip, orthodox Coniston knew that he was behind them:  good Mr. Ware knew it, and changed a little his prayers and sermon:  Cynthia knew it, grew hot and cold by turns under her poke bonnet.  Was he not her brand, and would she not get the credit of snatching him?  How willingly, then, would she have given up that credit to the many who coveted it—­if it were a credit.  Was Jethro at meeting for any religious purpose?

Jethro’s importance to Coniston lay in his soul, and that soul was numbered at present ninety and ninth.  When the meeting was over, Aunt Lucy Prescott hobbled out at an amazing pace to advise him to read chapter seven of Matthew, but he had vanished:  via the horse sheds; if she had known it, and along Coniston Water to the house by the tannery, where he drew breath in a state of mind not to be depicted.  He had gazed at the back of Cynthia’s poke bonnet for two hours, but he had an uneasy feeling that he would have to pay a price.

The price was paid, in part, during the next six days.  To do Jethro’s importance absolute justice, he did inspire fear among his contemporaries, and young men and women did not say much to his face; what they did say gave them little satisfaction.  Grim Deacon Ira stopped him as he was going to buy hides, and would have prayed over him if Jethro had waited; dear Aunt Lucy did pray, but in private.  In six days orthodox Coniston came to the conclusion that this ninety and ninth soul were better left to her who had snatched it, Cynthia Ware.