Why not?  A tribute was one thing, but to have to put the reasons for that tribute, into words was quite another.

“Why not?” cried Milly, “because you hain’t a-goin’ to, that’s all.”

Strange deference!  But Cynthia turned and looked at the girl with a little, sad smile of comprehension and affection.  She took her by the shoulders and kissed her.

Whereupon a most amazing thing happened—­Millicent burst into tears—­wild, ungovernable tears they were.

“Because you hain’t a-goin’ to,” she repeated, her words interspersed with violent sobs.  “You go ’way, Cynthy,” she cried, “git out!”

“Milly,” said Cynthia, shaking her head, “you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”  But they were not words of reproof.  She took a little lamp from the shelf, and went up the narrow stairs to her own room in the gable, where Lemuel had deposited the rawhide trunk.

Though she had had nothing all day, she felt no hunger, but for Milly’s sake she tried hard to eat the supper when it came.  Before it had fairly begun Moses Hatch had arrived, with Amandy and Eben; and Rias Richardson came in, and other neighbors, to say a word of welcome to hear (if the truth be not too disparaging to their characters) the reasons for her sudden appearance, and such news of her Boston experiences as she might choose to give them.  They had learned from Lem Hallowell that Cynthia had returned a lady:  a real lady, not a sham one who relied on airs and graces, such as had come to Coniston the summer before to look for a summer place on the painter’s recommendation.  Lem was not a gossip, in the disagreeable sense of the term, and he had not said a word to his neighbors of his feelings on that terrible drive from Brampton.  Knowing that some blow had fallen upon Cynthia, he would have spared her these visits if he could.  But Lem was wise and kind, so he merely said that she had returned a lady.

And they had found a lady.  As they stood or sat around the kitchen (Eben and Rias stood), Cynthia talked to them—­about Coniston:  rather, be it said, that they talked about Coniston in answer to her questions.  The sledding had been good; Moses had hauled so many thousand feet of lumber to Brampton; Sam Price’s woman (she of Harwich) had had a spell of sciatica; Chester Perkins’s bull had tossed his brother-in-law, come from Iowy on a visit, and broke his leg; yes, Amandy guessed her dyspepsy was somewhat improved since she had tried Graham’s Golden Remedy—­it made her feel real lighthearted; Eben (blushing furiously) was to have the Brook Farm in the spring; there was a case of spotted fever in Tarleton.

Yes, Lem Hallowell had been right, Cynthia was a lady, but not a mite stuck up.  What was the difference in her?  Not her clothes, which she wore as if she had been used to them all her life.  Poor Cynthia, the clothes were simple enough.  Not her manner, which was as kind and sweet as ever.  What was it that compelled their talk about themselves, that made them refrain from asking those questions about Boston, and why she had come back?  Some such query was running in their minds as they talked, while Jethro, having finished his milk and crackers, sat silent at the end of the table with his eyes upon her.  He rose when Mr. Satterlee came in.