rich and powerful of the city--and yet he
would not have exchanged their lot for his. Could he have earned with his
own hands such a house, and sit Cynthia there in glory, what happiness!
But, I stray.

They were walking in the twilight, for the sun had sunk all red in the
marshes of the Charles, when there chanced along a certain Mr. Judson, a
jeweller, taking the air likewise. So there came into Wetherell's mind
that amusing adventure with the country lad and the locket. His name, by
reason of some strange quality in it, he had never forgotten, and
suddenly he recalled that the place the countryman had come from was
Coniston.

"Cynthia," said her husband, when Mr. Judson was gone, "did you know any
one in Coniston named Jethro Bass?"

She did not answer him. And, thinking she had not heard, he spoke again.

"Why do you ask?" she said, in a low tone, without looking at him.

He told her the story. Not until the end of it did the significance of
the name engraved come to him--Cynthy.

"Cynthy, from Jethro."

"Why, it might have been you!" he said jestingly. "Was he an admirer of
yours, Cynthia, that strange, uncouth countryman? Did he give you the
locket?"

"No," she answered, "he never did."

Wetherell glanced at her in surprise, and saw that her lip was quivering,
that tears were on her lashes. She laid her hand on his arm.

"William," she said, drawing him to a bench, "come, let us sit down, and
I will tell you the story of Jethro Bass. We have been happy together,
you and I, for I have found peace with you. I have tried to be honest
with you, William, and I will always be so. I told you before we were
married that I loved another man. I have tried to forget him, but as God
is my judge, I cannot. I believe I shall love him until I die."

They sat in the summer twilight, until darkness fell, and the lights
gleamed through the leaves, and a deep, cool breath coming up from the
sea stirred the leaves above their heads. That she should have loved
Jethro seemed as strange to her as to him, and yet Wetherell was to feel
the irresistible force of him. Hers was not a love that she chose, or
would have chosen, but something elemental that cried out from the man to
her, and drew her. Something that had in it now, as of yore, much of pain
and even terror, but drew her. Strangest of all was that William
Wetherell understood and was not jealous of this thing: which leads us to
believe that some essence of virility wa