thing. And yet--and yet he
sat there. Surely Jethro Bass must have known that he could have taken no
more exquisite vengeance than this, to compel a man--and such a man--to
sit down in the white heat of passion--and write two letters of
forgiveness! Jethro sat by the window, to all appearances oblivious to
the tortures of his victim.

He who has tried to write a note--the simplest note when his mind was
harassed, will understand something of Isaac Worthington's sensations. He
would no sooner get an inkling of what his opening sentence was to be
than the flames of his anger would rise and sweep it away. He could not
even decide which letter he was to write first: to his son, who had
defied him and who (the father knew in his heart) condemned him? or to
the schoolteacher, who was responsible for all his misery; who--Mr.
Worthington believed--had taken advantage of his son's youth by feminine
wiles of no mean order so as to gain possession of him. I can almost
bring myself to pity the first citizen of Brampton as he sits there with
his pen poised over the paper, and his enemy waiting to read those tender
epistles of forgiveness which he has yet to write. The clock has almost
got round to the half-hour again, and there is only the date--and a wrong
one at that.

"My dear Miss Wetherell,--Circumstances (over which I have no
control?)"--ought he not to call her Cynthia? He has to make the letter
credible in the eyes of the censor who sits by the window. "My dear Miss
Wetherell, I have come to the conclusion"--two sheets torn up, or thrust
into Mr. Worthington's pocket. By this time words have begun to have a
colorless look. "My dear Miss Wetherell,--Having become convinced of the
sincere attachment which my son Robert has for you, I am writing him
to-night to give my full consent to his marriage. He has given me to
understand that you have hitherto persistently refused to accept him
because I have withheld that consent, and I take this opportunity of
expressing my admiration of this praiseworthy resolution on your part."
(If this be irony, it is sublime! Perhaps Isaac Worthington has a little
of the artist in him, and now that he is in the heat of creation has
forgotten the circumstances under which he is composing.) "My son's
happiness and career in life are of such moment to me that, until the
present, I could not give my sanction to what I at first regarded as a
youthful fancy. Now that, my son, for your sake, has shown h