He reached the platform, bowed irresolutely to the chairman, and then stood awkwardly with one knee bent, peering at his audience over his glasses.  He began without any address whatever.

“I want to say,” he began in a low voice, “that I had no intention of coming to this meeting.  And I am going to confess—­I am going to confess that I was afraid to come.”  He raised his voice a little defiantly a the words, and paused.  One could almost hear the people breathing.  “I was afraid to come for fear that I should do the very thing I am going to do now.  And yet I was impelled to come.  I want to say that my conscience has not been clear since, as a member of the prudential committee, I gave my consent to the dismissal of Miss Wetherell.  I know that I was influenced by personal and selfish considerations which should have had no weight.  And after listening to Miss Penniman I take this opportunity to declare, of my own free will, that I will add my vote to that of Judge Graves to reinstate Miss Wetherell.”

Mr. Hill bowed slightly, and was about to descend the steps when the chairman, throwing parliamentary dignity to the winds, arose and seized the feed dealer’s hand.  And the people in the hall almost as one man sprang to their feet and cheered, and some—­Ephraim Prescott among these—­even waved their hats and shouted Mr. Hill’s name.  A New England audience does not frequently forget itself, but there were few present who did not understand the heroism of the man’s confession, who were not carried away by the simple and dramatic dignity of it.  He had no need to mention Mr. Worthington’s name, or specify the nature of his obligations to that gentleman.  In that hour Jonathan Hill rose high in the respect of Brampton, and some pressed into the aisle to congratulate him on his way back to his seat.  Not a few were grateful to him for another reason.  He had relieved the meeting of the necessity of taking any further action:  of putting their names, for instance, in their enthusiasm to a paper which the first citizen might see.

Judge Graves, whose sense of a climax was acute, rapped for order.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, in a voice not wholly free from emotion, “you will all wish to pay your respects to the famous lady, who is with us.  I see that the Rev. Mr. Sweet is present, and I suggest that we adjourn, after he has favored us with a prayer.”

As the minister came forward, Deacon Hartington dropped his head and began to flutter his eyelids.  The Rev. Mr. Sweet prayed, and so was brought to an end the most exciting meeting ever held in Brampton town hall.

But Miss Lucretia did not like being called “a famous lady.”

CHAPTER XVI

While Miss Lucretia was standing, unwillingly enough, listening to the speeches that were poured into her ear by various members of the audience, receiving the incense and myrrh to which so great a celebrity was entitled, the old soldier hobbled away to his little house as fast as his three legs would carry him.  Only one event in his life had eclipsed this in happiness—­the interview in front of the White House.  He rapped on the window with his stick, thereby frightening Cynthia half out of her wits as she sat musing sorrowfully by the fire.