trial--so bitter for her--as a judge. If the reader has seen youth and
innocence sitting in the seat of justice, with age and experience at the
bar, he has mistaken Cynthia. She came to Coniston inexorable, it is
true, because hers was a nature impelled to do right though it perish.
She did not presume to say what Jethro's lights and opportunities might
have been. Her own she knew, and by them she must act accordingly.

When he had finished speaking, she stole silently to his side and slipped
her hand in his. He trembled violently at her touch.

"Uncle Jethro," she said in a low tone, "I love you."

At the words he trembled more violently still.

"No, no, Cynthy," he answered thickly, "don't say that--I--I don't expect
it, Cynthy, I know you can't--'twouldn't be right, Cynthy. I hain't fit
for it."

"Uncle Jethro," she said, "I love you better than I have ever loved you
in my life."

Oh, how welcome were the tears! and how human! He turned, pitifully
incredulous, wondering that she should seek by deceit to soften the blow;
he saw them running down her cheeks, and he believed. Yes, he believed,
though it seemed a thing beyond belief. Unworthy, unfit though he were,
she loved him. And his own love as he gazed at her, sevenfold increased
as it had been by the knowledge of losing her, changed in texture from
homage to worship--nay, to adoration. His punishment would still be
heavy; but whence had come such a wondrous gift to mitigate it?