t Miss Goddard's place."

Bob did not reply for a moment. The little schoolhouse was the only
building in Brampton he had glanced at as he came through. Mrs. Merrill
had told him that she might take that place, but he had little imagined
she was already there on her platform facing the rows of shining little
faces at the desks. He had deemed it more than possible that he might see
Jethro at Coniston, but he had not taken into account that which he might
say to him. Bob had, indeed, thought of nothing but Cynthia, and of the
blow that had fallen upon her. He had tried to realize the, multiple
phases of the situation which confronted him. Here was the man who, by
the conduct of his life, had caused the blow; he, too, was her
benefactor; and again, this same man was engaged in the bitterest of
conflicts with his father, Isaac D. Worthington, and it was this conflict
which had precipitated that blow. Bob could not have guessed, by looking
at Jethro Bass, how great was the sorrow which had fallen upon him. But
Bob knew that Jethro hated his father, must hate him now, because of
Cynthia, with a hatred given to few men to feel. He thought that Jethro
would crush Mr. Worthington and ruin him if he could; and Bob believed he
could.

What was he to say? He did not fear Jethro, for Bob Worthington had
courage enough; but these things were running in his mind, and he felt
the power of the man before him, as all men did. Bob went to the window
and came back again. He knew that he must speak.

"Mr. Bass," he said at last, "did Cynthia ever mention me to you?"

"No," said Jethro.

"Mr. Bass, I love her. I have told her so, and I have asked her to be my
wife."

There was no need, indeed, to have told Jethro this. The shock of that
revelation had come to him when he had seen the trotters, had been
confirmed when the young man had stood before the portrait. Jethro's face
might have twitched when Bob stood there with his back to him.

Jethro could not speak. Once more there had come to him a moment when he
would not trust his voice to ask a question. He dreaded the answer,
though none might have surmised this. He knew Cynthia. He knew that, when
she had given her heart, it was for all time. He dreaded the answer;
because it might mean that her sorrow was doubled.

"I believe," Bob continued painfully, seeing that Jethro would say
nothing, "I believe that Cynthia loves me. I should not dare to say it or
to hope it, without reason.