in the parlor, Cynthia had thought of Mr. Merrill. He could tell her
whether those accusations were true or false, for he was a friend of
Jethro's. Her natural impulse--the primeval one of a creature which is
hurt--had been to hide herself; to fly to her own room, and perhaps by
nightfall the courage would come to her to ask him the terrible
questions. He was a friend of Jethro's. An illuminating flash revealed to
her the meaning of that friendship--if the accusations were true. It was
then she had thought of Miss Lucretia Penniman, and somehow she had found
the courage to face the sunlight and go to her. She would spare Mr.
Merrill.

But had she spared him? Sadly the family sat down to supper without her,
and after supper Mr. Merrill sent a message to his club that he could not
attend a committee meeting there that evening. He sat with his wife in
the little writing room, he pretending to read and she pretending to sew,
until the silence grew too oppressive, and they spoke of the matter that
was in their hearts. It was one of the bitterest evenings in Mr.
Merrill's life, and there is no need to linger on it. They talked
earnestly of Cynthia, and of her future. But they both knew why she did
not come down to them.

"So she is really going to Coniston," said Mr. Merrill.

"Yes," answered Mrs. Merrill, "and I think she is doing right, Stephen."

Mr. Merrill groaned. His wife rose and put her hand on his shoulder.

"Come, Stephen," she said gently, "you will see her in the morning.

"I will go to Coniston with her," he said.