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 him, her arms outstretched, her fingers opening
and closing. And then she stopped.

"I would believe no one," she said, "I will believe no one--until--unless
you tell me. Uncle Jethro," she cried in agony, "Uncle Jethro, tell me
that those things are not true!"

She waited a space, but he did not stir. There was no sound, save the
song of Coniston Water under the shattered ice.

"Won't you speak to me?" she whispered. "Won't you tell me that they are
not true?"

His shoulders shook convulsively. O for the right to turn to her and tell
her that they were lies! He would have bartered his soul for it. What was
all the power in the world compared to this priceless treasure he had
lost? Once before he had cast it away, though without meaning to. Then he
did not know the eternal value of love--of such love as those two women
had given him. Now he knew that it was beyond value, the one precious
gift of life, and the knowledge had come too late. Could he have saved
his life if he had listened to that other Cynthia?

"Won't you tell me that they are not true?"

Even then he did not turn to her, but he answered. Curious to relate,