she should hear tidings from the capital. Isaac
Worthington's own town was ringing with it. And as week after week of
that interminable session went by, the conviction slowly grew upon
Brampton that its first citizen had been beaten by Jethro Bass. Something
of Mr. Worthington's affairs was known: the mills, for instance, were not
being run to their full capacity. And then had come the definite news
that Mr. Worthington was beaten, a local representative having arrived
straight from the rotunda. Cynthia overheard Lem Hallowell telling it to
Ephraim, and she could not for the life of her help rejoicing, though she
despised herself for it. Isaac Worthington was humbled now, and Jethro
had humbled him to avenge her. Despite her grief over his return to that
life, there was something to compel her awe and admiration in the way he
had risen and done this thing after men had fallen from him. Her mother
had had something of these same feelings, without knowing why.

People who had nothing but praise for him before were saying hard things
about Isaac Worthington that night. When the baron is defeated, the serfs
come out of their holes in the castle rock and fling their curses across
the moat. Cynthia slept but little, and was glad when the day came to
take her to her scholars, to ease her mind of the thoughts which tortured
it.

And then, when she stopped at the post-office to speak to Ephraim on her
way homeward in the afternoon, she heard men talking behind the
partition, and she stood, as one stricken, listening beside the window.
Other tidings had come in the shape of a telegram. The first rumor had
been false. Brampton had not yet received the details, but the
Consolidation Bill had gone into the House that morning, and would be a
law before the week was out. A part of it was incomprehensible to
Cynthia, but so much she had understood. She did not wait to speak to
Ephraim, and she was going out again when a man rushed past her and
through the partition door. Cynthia paused instinctively, for she
recognized him as one of the frequenters of the station and a bearer of
news.

"Jethro's come home, boys," he shouted; "come in on the four o'clock, and
went right off to Coniston. Guess he's done for, this time, for certain.
Looks it. By Godfrey, he looks eighty! Callate his day's over, from the
way the boys talked on the train."

Cynthia lingered to hear no more, and went out, dazed, into the September
sunshine: Jethro beaten