“I shall see you in Brampton,” he cried, “I—­I have seen you in Brampton.”

She did not answer this confession, but left him, and presently disappeared beyond the triangle of the green, while Mr. Worthington pursued his way to Brampton by the road,—­his thoughts that evening not on waterfalls or machinery.  As for Cynthia’s conduct, I do not defend or explain it, for I have found out that the best and wisest of women can at times be coquettish.

It was that meeting which shook the serenity of poor Moses, and he learned of it when he went to Jonah Winch’s store an hour later.  An hour later, indeed, Coniston was discussing the man of leisure in a new light.  It was possible that Cynthia might take him, and Deacon Ira Perkins made a note the next time he went to Brampton to question Silas Wheelock on Mr. Worthington’s origin, habits, and orthodoxy.

Cynthia troubled herself very little about any of these.  Scarcely any purpose in the world is single, but she had had a purpose in talking to Mr. Worthington, besides the pleasure it gave her.  And the next Saturday, when she rode off to Brampton, some one looked through the cracks in the tannery shed and saw that she wore her new bonnet.

There is scarcely a pleasanter place in the world than Brampton Street on a summer’s day.  Down the length of it runs a wide green, shaded by spreading trees, and on either side, tree-shaded, too, and each in its own little plot, gabled houses of that simple, graceful architecture of our forefathers.  Some of these had fluted pilasters and cornices, the envy of many a modern architect, and fan-shaped windows in dormer and doorway.  And there was the church, then new, that still stands to the glory of its builders; with terraced steeple and pillared porch and the widest of checker-paned sashes to let in the light on high-backed pews and gallery.

The celebrated Social Library, halfway up the street, occupied part of Miss Lucretia’s little house; or, it might better be said, Miss Lucretia boarded with the Social Library.  There Cynthia hitched her horse, gave greeting to Mr. Ezra Graves and others who paused, and, before she was fairly in the door, was clasped in Miss Lucretia’s arms.  There were new books to be discussed, arrived by the stage the day before; but scarce half an hour had passed before Cynthia started guiltily at a timid knock, and Miss Lucretia rose briskly.

“It must be Ezra Graves come for the Gibbon,” she said.  “He’s early.”  And she went to the door.  Cynthia thought it was not Ezra.  Then came Miss Lucretia’s voice from the entry:—­

“Why, Mr. Worthington!  Have you read the Last of the Mohicans already?”