pital, 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 in the
gray eyes, and the same exquisite purity in the features. He saw her
again--as if it were yesterday--walking in the golden green light under
the village maples, and himself standing in the tannery door; he saw the
face under the poke bonnet on the road to Brampton, and heard the thrush
singing in the woods. And--if he could only blot out that scene from his
life!--remembered her, a transformed Cynthia,--remembered that face in
the lantern-light when he had flung back the hood that shaded it; and
that hair which he had kissed, wet, then, from the sleet. Ah, God, for
that briefest of moments she had been his!

So he stared at the picture as it lay in the palm of his hand, and
forgot him who had been her husband. But at length he started, as from a
dream, and gave it back to Wetherell, who was watching him. Her name had
never been mentioned between the two men, and ye