sed her, though she knew not whether she
would have fled or rushed into his arms. How long she stood thus, and he
stood, may not be said, but at length he put down his foot and took the
saw from his knee, his eyes fell upon her, and his lips spoke her name.

"Cynthy!"

Speechless, she ran to him and flung her arms about his neck, and he
dropped the saw and held her tightly--even as he had held that other
Cynthia in that place in the year gone by. And yet not so. Now he clung
to her with a desperation that was terrible, as though to let go of her
would be to fall into nameless voids beyond human companionship and love.
But at last he did release her, and stood looking down into her face, as
if seeking to read a sentence there.

And how was she to pronounce that sentence! Though her faith might be
taken away, her love remained, and grew all the greater because he needed
it. Yet she knew that no subterfuge or pretence would avail her to hide
why she had come. She could not hide it. It must be spoken out now,
though death was preferable.

And he was waiting. Did he guess? She could not tell. He had spoken no
word but her name. He had expressed no surprise at her appearance, asked
no reasons for it. Superlatives of suffering or joy or courage are hard
to convey--words fall so far short of the feeling. And Cynthia's pain was
so far beyond tears.

"Uncle Jethro," she said, "yesterday something--something happened. I
could not stay in Boston any longer."

He nodded.

"I had to come to you. I could not wait."

He nodded again.

"I--I read something." To take a white-hot iron and sear herself would
have been easier than this.

"Yes," he said.

She felt that the look was coming again--the look which she had surprised
in his face. His hands dropped lifelessly from her shoulders, and he
turned and went to the door, where he stood with his back to her,
silhouetted against the eastern sky all pink from the reflection of
sunset. He would not help her. Perhaps he could not. The things were
true. There had been a grain of hope within her, ready to sprout.

"I read two articles from the Newcastle Guardian about you--about your
life."

"Yes," he said. But he did not turn.

"How you had--how you had earned your living. How you had gained your
power," she went on, her pain lending to her voice an exquisite note of
many modulations.

"Yes--Cynthy," he said, and still stared at the eastern sky.

She took two steps toward