There is no intention of enriching these pages with Miss Lucretia’s homilies.  Their subject-matter may be found in the files of the Woman’s Hour.  She did not always preach, although many people will not believe this statement.  Miss Lucretia, too, had a heart, though she kept it hidden away, only to be brought out on occasions when she was sure of its appreciation, and she grew strangely interested in this self-contained girl from Coniston whose mother she had known.  Miss Lucretia understood Cynthia, who also was the kind who kept her heart hidden, the kind who conceal their troubles and sufferings because they find it difficult to give them out.  So Miss Lucretia had Cynthia to take supper with her at least once in the week, and watched her quietly, and let her speak of as much of her life as she chose—­which was not much, at first.  But Miss Lucretia was content to wait, and guessed at many things which Cynthia did not tell her, and made some personal effort, unknown to Cynthia, to find out other things.  It will be said that she had designs on the girl.  If so, they were generous designs; and perhaps it was inevitable that Miss Lucretia should recognize in every young woman of spirit and brains a possible recruit for the cause.

It has now been shown in some manner and as briefly as possible how Cynthia’s life had changed, and what it had become.  We have got her partly through the winter, and find her still dreaming of the sparkling snow on Coniston and of the wind whirling it on clear, cold days like smoke among the spruces; of Uncle Jethro sitting by his stove through the long evenings all alone; of Rias in his store and Moses Hatch and Lem Hallowell, and Cousin Ephraim in his new post-office.  Uncle Jethro wrote for the first time in his life—­letters:  short letters, but in his own handwriting, and deserving of being read for curiosity’s sake if there were time.  The wording was queer enough and guarded enough, but they were charged with a great affection which clung to them like lavender.

And Cynthia kept them every one, and read them over on such occasions when she felt that she could not live another minute out of sight of her mountain.

Such was the state of affairs one gray afternoon in December when Cynthia, who was sitting in Mrs. Merrill’s parlor, suddenly looked up from her book to discover that two young men were in the room.  The young men were apparently quite as much surprised as she, and the parlor maid stood grinning behind them.

“Tell Miss Susan and Miss Jane, Ellen,” said Cynthia, preparing to depart.  One of the young men she recognized from a photograph on Susan’s bureau.  He was, for the time being, Susan’s.  His name, although it does not matter much, was Morton Browne, and he would have been considerably astonished if he had guessed how much of his history Cynthia knew.  It was Mr. Browne’s habit to take Susan for a walk as often as propriety permitted, and on such occasions he generally brought along a good-natured classmate to take care of Jane.  This, apparently, was one of the occasions.  Mr. Browne was tall and dark and generally good-looking, while his friends were usually distinguished for their good nature.