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