ered the storekeeper. "Will you
tell me the amount of my bill?"

"Judge Bass gave me instructions that he would settle that."

"It is very kind of Mr. Bass," said Wetherell, "but I prefer to pay it
myself."

The man hesitated.

"The judge will be very angry, Mr. Wetherell."

"Kindly give me the bill."

The clerk made it out and handed it over in silence. Wetherell had in his
pocket the money from several contributions to the Guardian, and he paid
him. Then they set out for the station, bought their tickets and hurried
past the sprinkling of people there. The little train for Truro was
standing under the sheds, the hissing steam from the locomotive rising
perpendicular in the still air of the morning, and soon they were settled
in one of the straight-backed seats. The car was almost empty, for few
people were going up that day, and at length, after what, seemed an
eternity of waiting, they started, and soon were in the country once more
in that wonderful Truro valley with its fruit trees and its clover
scents; with its sparkling stream that tumbled through the passes and
mirrored between green meadow-banks the blue and white of the sky. How
hungrily they drank in the freshness of it.

They reached Truro village at eleven. Outside the little tavern there,
after dinner, the green stage was drawn up; and Tom the driver cracked
his long whip over the Morgan leaders and they started, swaying in the
sand ruts and jolting over the great stones that cropped out of the road.
Up they climbed, through narrow ways in the forest--ways hedged with
alder and fern and sumach and wild grape, adorned with oxeye daisies and
tiger lilies, and the big purple flowers which they knew and loved so
well. They passed, too, wild lakes overhung with primeval trees, where
the iris and the waterlily grew among the fallen trunks and the
water-fowl called to each other across the blue stretches. And at length,
when the sun was beginning visibly to fall, they came out into an open
cut on the western side and saw again the long line of Coniston once more
against the sky.

"Dad," said Cynthia, as she gazed, "don't you love it better than any
other place in the world?"

He did. But he could not answer her.

An hour later, from the hilltops above Isaac Worthington's mills, they
saw the terraced steeple of Brampton church, and soon the horses were
standing with drooping heads and wet sides in front of Mr. Sherman's
tavern in Brampton Street; and