yet which she could not hush!  Was it possible that such things could be printed about one whom she had admired and respected above all men—­nay, whom she had so passionately adored from childhood?  A monster of iniquity, a pariah!  The cruel, bitter calumny of those names!  Cynthia thought of his goodness and loving kindness and his charity to her and to many others.  His charity!  The dreaded voice repeated that word, and sent a thought that struck terror into her heart:  Whence had come the substance of that charity?  Then came another word—­mortgage.  There it was on the paper, and at sight of it there leaped out of her memory a golden-green poplar shimmering against the sky and the distant blue billows of mountains in the west.  She heard the high-pitched voice of a woman speaking the word, and even then it had had a hateful sound, and she heard herself asking, “Uncle Jethro, what is a mortgage?” He had struck his horse with the whip.

Loyal though the girl was, the whispers would not hush, nor the doubts cease to assail her.  What if ever so small a portion of this were true?  Could the whole of this hideous structure, tier resting upon tier, have been reared without something of a foundation?  Fiercely though she told herself she would believe none of it, fiercely though she hated Mr. Worthington, fervently though she repeated aloud that her love for Jethro and her faith in him had not changed, the doubts remained.  Yet they remained unacknowledged.

An hour passed.  It was a thing beyond belief that one hour could have held such a store of agony.  An hour passed, and Cynthia came dry-eyed from the parlor.  Susan and Jane, waiting to give her comfort when she was recovered a little from this unknown but overwhelming affliction, were fain to stand mute when they saw her to pay a silent deference to one whom sorrow had lifted far above them and transfigured.  That was the look on Cynthia’s face.  She went up the stairs, and they stood in the hall not knowing what to do, whispering in awe-struck voices.  They were still there when Cynthia came down again, dressed for the street.  Jane seized her by the hand.

“Where are you going, Cynthia?” she asked.

“I shall be back by five,” said Cynthia.

She went up the hill, and across to old Louisburg Square, and up the hill again.  The weather had cleared, the violet-paned windows caught the slanting sunlight and flung it back across the piles of snow.  It was a day for wedding-bells.  At last Cynthia came to a queerly fashioned little green door that seemed all askew with the slanting street, and rang the bell, and in another moment was standing on the threshold of Miss Lucretia Penniman’s little sitting room.  To Miss Lucretia, at her writing table, one glance was sufficient.  She rose quickly to meet the girl, kissed her unresponsive cheek, and led her to a chair.  Miss Lucretia was never one to beat about the bush, even in the gravest crisis.