“I am a coward, my dear.  I deserve your rebuke.  To the best of my knowledge and belief, and so far as I can judge from the inquiries I have undertaken, Jethro Bass has made his living and gained and held his power by the methods described in those articles.”

Miss Lucretia took off her spectacles and wiped them.  She had committed a fine act of courage.

Cynthia stood up.

“Thank you,” she said, “that is what I wanted to know.”

“But—­” cried Miss Lucretia, in amazement and apprehension, “but what are you going to do?”

“I am going to Coniston,” said Cynthia, “to ask him if those things are true.”

“To ask him!”

“Yes.  If he tells me they are true, then I shall believe them.”

“If he tells you?” Miss Lucretia gasped.  Here was a courage of which she had not reckoned.  “Do you think he will tell you?”

“He will tell me, and I shall believe him, Miss Lucretia.”

“You are a remarkable girl, Cynthia,” said Miss Lucretia, involuntarily.  Then she paused for a moment.  “Suppose he tells you they are true?  You surely can’t live with him again, Cynthia.”

“Do you suppose I am going to desert him, Miss Lucretia?” she asked.  “He loves me, and—­and I love him.”  This was the first time her voice had faltered.  “He kept my father from want and poverty, and he has brought me up as a daughter.  If his life has been as you say, I shall make my own living!”

“How?” demanded Miss Lucretia, the practical part of her coming uppermost.

“I shall teach school.  I believe I can get a position, in a place where I can see him often.  I can break his heart, Miss Lucretia, I—­I can bring sadness to myself, but I will not desert him.”

Miss Lucretia stared at her for a moment, not knowing what to say or do.  She perceived that the girl had a spirit as strong as her own:  that her plans were formed, her mind made up, and that no arguments could change her.

“Why did you come to me?” she asked irrelevantly.

“Because I thought that you would have read the articles, and I knew if you had, you would have taken the trouble to inform yourself of the world’s opinion.”

Again Miss Lucretia stared at her.

“I will go to Coniston with you,” she said, “at least as far as Brampton.”

Cynthia’s face softened a little at the words.

“I would rather go alone, Miss Lucretia,” she answered gently, but with the same firmness.  “I—­I am very grateful to you for your kindness to me in Boston.  I shall not forget it—­or you.  Good-by, Miss Lucretia.”

But Miss Lucretia, sobbing openly, gathered the girl in her arms and pressed her.  Age was coming on her indeed, that she should show such weakness.  For a long time she could not trust herself to speak, and then her words were broken.  Cynthia must come to her at the first sign of doubt or trouble:  this, Miss Lucretia’s house, was to be a refuge in any storm that life might send—­and Miss Lucretia’s heart.  Cynthia promised, and when she went out at last through the little door her own tears were falling, for she loved Miss Lucretia.