her remembrance, she lacked the courage to read them through. But not for
long. Suddenly her fear of them gave place to a consuming hatred of the
man who had inspired these articles: of Isaac D. Worthington, for she
knew that he must have inspired them. And then she began again to read
them.

Truth, though it come perverted from the mouth of an enemy, has in itself
a note to which the soul responds, let the mind deny as vehemently as it
will. Cynthia read, and as she read her body was shaken with sobs, though
the tears came not. Could it be true? Could the least particle of the
least of these fearful insinuations be true? Oh, the treason of those
whispers in a voice that was surely not her own, and yet which she could
not hush! Was it possible that such things could be printed about one
whom she had admired and respected above all men--nay, whom she had so
passionately adored from childhood? A monster of iniquity, a pariah! The
cruel, bitter calumny of those names! Cynthia thought of his goodness and
loving kindness and his charity to her and to many others. His charity!
The dreaded voice repeated that word, and sent a thought that struck
terror into her heart: Whence had come the substance of that charity?
Then came another word--mortgage. There it was on the paper, and at sight
of it there leaped out of her memory a golden-green poplar shimmering
against the sky and the distant blue billows of mountains in the west.
She heard the high-pitched voice of a woman speaking the word, and even
then it had had a hateful sound, and she heard herself asking, "Uncle
Jethro, what is a mortgage?" He had struck his horse with the whip.

Loyal though the girl was, the whispers would not hush, nor the doubts
cease to assail her. What if ever so small a portion of this were true?
Could the whole of this hideous structure, tier resting upon tier, have
been reared without something of a foundation? Fiercely though she told