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 question startled her. Suppose he had not been at
home! She had never once thought of that. Could she have borne to wait
for him?

After that Lem gave it up. He had satisfied himself as to his vocal
powers, but he had not the courage even to whistle. The journey to
Coniston was faster in the winter, and at the next turn of the road the
little village came into view. There it was, among the snows. The pain in
Cynthia's heart, so long benumbed, quickened when she saw it. How write
of the sharpness of that pain to those who have never known it? The sight
of every gable brought its agony,--the store with the checker-paned
windows, the harness shop, the meeting-house, the white parsonage on its
little hill. Rias Richardson ran out of the store in his carpet slippers,