slowly.

"I am right," declared Mr. Merrill "you'll back me in this, I know it.
Why, she's like your own daughter. You remember what I say. I mean
it.--What are you thinking about, Cynthia?"

"I couldn't leave Dad and Uncle Jethro," she said.

"Why, bless your soul," said Mr. Merrill "bring Dad along. We'll find
room for him. And I guess Uncle Jethro will get to Boston twice a month
if you're there."

And Mr. Merrill got into the buggy with Mr. Sherman and drove away to
Brampton, thinking of many things.

"S-Steve's a good man," said Jethro. "C-come up here from Brampton to see
your father--did he?"

"Yes," answered Cynthia, "he is very kind." She was about to tell Jethro
what a strange difference this visit had made in her father's spirits,
but some instinct kept her silent. She knew that Jethro had never ceased
to reproach himself for inviting Wetherell to the capital, and she was
sure that something had happened there which had disturbed her father and
brought on that fearful apathy. But the apathy was dispelled now, and she
shrank from giving Jethro pain by mentioning the fact.

He never knew, indeed, until many years afterward, what had brought
Stephen Merrill to Coniston. When Jethro went up the stairs that
afternoon, he found William Wetherell alone, looking out over the garden
with a new peace and contentment in his eyes. Jethro drew breath when he
saw that look, as if a great load had been lifted from his heart.

"F-feelin' some better to-day, Will?" he said.

"I am well again, Jethro," replied the storekeeper, pressing Jethro's
hand for the first time in months.

"S-soon be, Will," said Jethro, "s-soon be."

Wetherell, who was not speaking of the welfare of the body, did not
answer.

"Jethro," he said presently, "there is a little box lying in the top of
my trunk over there in the corner. Will you get it for me."

Jethro rose and opened the rawhide trunk and handed the little rosewood
box to his friend. Wetherell took it and lifted the lid reverently, with
that same smile on his face and far-off look in his eyes, and drew out a
small daguerreotype in a faded velvet frame. He gazed at the picture a
long time, and then he held it out to Jethro; and Jethro looked at it,
and his hand trembled.

It was a picture of Cynthia Ware. And who can say what emotions it awoke
in Jethro's heart? She was older than the Cynthia he had known, and yet
she did not seem so. There was the same sweet, virginal look