steeple; past the
postoffice,--Cousin Ephraim's postoffice,--where Lem gave her a
questioning look--but she shook her head, and he did not wait for the
distribution of the last mail that day; past the great mansion of Isaac
D. Worthington, where the iron mastiffs on the lawn were up to their
muzzles in snow. After that they took the turn to the right, which was
the road to Coniston.

Well-remembered road, and in winter or summer, Cynthia knew every tree
and farmhouse beside it. Now it consisted of two deep grooves in the deep
snow; that was all, save for a curving turnout here and there for team to
pass team. Well-remembered scene! How often had Cynthia looked upon it in
happier days! Such a crust was on the snow as would bear a heavy man; and
the pasture hillocks were like glazed cakes in the window of a baker's
shop. Never had the western sky looked so yellow through the black
columns of the pine trunks. A lonely, beautiful road it was that evening.

For a long time the silence of the great hills was broken only by the
sweet jingle of the bells on the shaft. Many a day, winter and summer,
Lem had gone that road alone, whistling, and never before heeding that
silence. Now it seemed to symbolize a great sorrow: to be in subtle
harmony with that of the girl at his side. What that sorrow was he could
not guess. The good man yearned to comfort her, and yet he felt his
comfort too humble to be noticed by such sorrow. He longed to speak, but
for the first time in his life feared the sound of his own voice. Cynthia
had not spoken since she left the station, had not looked at him, had not
asked for the friends and neighbors whom she had loved so well--had not
asked for Jethro! Was there any sorrow on earth to be felt like that? And
was there one to feel it?

At length, when they reached the great forest, Lem Hallowell knew that he
must speak or cry aloud. But what would be the sound of his voice--after
such an age of disuse? Could he speak at all? Broken and hoarse and
hideous though the sound might be, he must speak. And hoarse and broken
it was. It was not his own, but still it was a voice.

"Folks--folks'll be surprised to see you, Cynthy."

No, he had not spoken at all. Yes, he had, for she answered him.

"I suppose they will, Lem."

"Mighty glad to have you back, Cynthy. We think a sight of you. We missed
you."

"Thank you, Lem."

"Jethro hain't lookin' for you by any chance, be he?

"No," she said. But the qu