herself she would believe none of it, fiercely though she hated Mr.
Worthington, fervently though she repeated aloud that her love for Jethro
and her faith in him had not changed, the doubts remained. Yet they
remained unacknowledged.

An hour passed. It was a thing beyond belief that one hour could have
held such a store of agony. An hour passed, and Cynthia came dry-eyed
from the parlor. Susan and Jane, waiting to give her comfort when she was
recovered a little from this unknown but overwhelming affliction, were
fain to stand mute when they saw her to pay a silent deference to one
whom sorrow had lifted far above them and transfigured. That was the look
on Cynthia's face. She went up the stairs, and they stood in the hall not
knowing what to do, whispering in awe-struck voices. They were still
there when Cynthia came down again, dressed for the street. Jane seized
her by the hand.

"Where are you going, Cynthia?" she asked.

"I shall be back by five," said Cynthia.

She went up the hill, and across to old Louisburg Square, and up the hill
again. The weather had cleared, the violet-paned windows caught the
slanting sunlight and flung it back across the piles of snow. It was a
day for wedding-bells. At last Cynthia came to a queerly fashioned little
green door that seemed all askew with the slanting street, and rang the
bell, and in another moment was standing on the threshold of Miss
Lucretia Penniman's little sitting room. To Miss Lucretia, at her writing
table, one glance was sufficient. She rose quickly to meet the girl,
kissed her unresponsive cheek, and led her to a chair. Miss Lucretia was
never one to beat about the bush, even in the gravest crisis.