Here was talk to make the author of the “Hymn to Coniston” sit up, if she hadn’t been sitting up already.

“And don’t you condemn him for those acts?” she gasped.

“Ah,” said Mrs. Merrill, thinking of her own husband.  Yesterday she would certainly have condemned.  Jethro Bass.  But now!  “I do not condemn anybody, Miss Penniman.”

Miss Lucretia thought this extraordinary, to say the least.

“I will put the question in another way, Mrs. Merrill,” said she.  “Do you think this Jethro Bass a proper guardian for Cynthia Wetherell?”

To her amazement Mrs. Merrill did not give her an instantaneous answer to this question.  Mrs. Merrill was thinking of Jethro’s love for the girl, manifold evidences of which she had seen, and her heart was filled with a melting pity.  It was such a love, Mrs. Merrill knew, as is not given to many here below.  And there was Cynthia’s love for him.  Mrs. Merrill had suffered that morning thinking of this tragedy also.

“I do not think he is a proper guardian for her, Miss Penniman.”

It was then that the tears came to Mrs. Merrill’s eyes for there is a limit to all human endurance.  The sight of these caused a remarkable change in Miss Lucretia, and she leaned forward and seized Mrs. Merrill’s arm.

“My dear,” she cried, “my dear, what are we to do?  Cynthia can’t go back to that man.  She loves him, I know, she loves him as few girls are capable of loving.  But when she, finds out what he is!  When she finds out how he got the money to support her father!” Miss Lucretia fumbled in her reticule and drew forth a handkerchief and brushed her own eyes—­eyes which a moment ago were so piercing.  “I have seen many young women,” she continued; “but I have known very few who were made of as fine a fibre and who have such principles as Cynthia Wetherell.”

“That is very true,” assented Mrs. Merrill too much cast down to be amazed by this revelation of Miss Lucretia’s weakness.

“But what are we to do?” insisted that lady; “who is to tell her what he is?  How is it to be kept from her, indeed?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Merrill, “there will be more, articles.  Mr. Merrill says so.  It seems there is to be a great political struggle in that state.”

“Precisely,” said Miss Lucretia, sadly.  “And whoever tells the girl will forfeit her friendship.  I—­I am very fond of her,” and here she applied again to the reticule.

“Whom would she believe?” asked Mrs. Merrill, whose estimation of Miss Lucretia was increasing by leaps and bounds.

“Precisely,” agreed Miss Lucretia.  “But she must hear about it sometime.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to let her hear?” suggested Mrs. Merrill; “we cannot very well soften that shock:  I talked the matter over a little with Mr. Merrill, and he thinks that we must take time over it, Miss Penniman.  Whatever we do, we must not act hastily.”

“Well,” said Miss Lucretia, “as I said, I am very fond of the girl, and I am willing to do my duty, whatever it may be.  And I also wished to say, Mrs. Merrill, that I have thought about another matter very carefully.  I am willing to provide for the girl.  I am getting too old to live alone.  I am getting too old, indeed, to do my work properly, as I used to do it.  I should like to have her to live with me.”