He left a tumultuous Cynthia, amazement and repentance struggling with anger, which forbade her calling him back:  pride in her answering to pride in him, and she rejoicing fiercely that he had pride.  Had he but known it, every step he took away from her that evening was a step in advance, and she gloried in the fact that he did not once look back.  As she walked toward Coniston, the thought came to her that she was rid of the thing she had stirred up, perhaps forever, and the thrush burst into his song once more.

That night, after Cynthia’s candle had gone out, when the minister sat on his doorsteps looking at the glory of the moon on the mountain forest, he was startled by the sight of a figure slowly climbing toward him up the slope.  A second glance told him that it was Jethro’s.  Vaguely troubled, he watched his approach; for good Priest Ware, while able to obey one-half the scriptural injunction, had not the wisdom of the serpent, and women, as typified by Cynthia, were a continual puzzle to him.  That very evening, Moses Hatch had called, had been received with more favor than usual, and suddenly packed off about his business.  Seated in the moonlight, the minister wondered vaguely whether Jethro Bass were troubling the girl.  And now Jethro stood before him, holding out a book.  Rising, Mr. Ware bade him good evening, mildly and cordially.

“C-come to leave this book for Cynthy,” said Jethro.

Mr. Ware took it, mechanically.

“Have you finished it?” he asked kindly.

“All I want,” replied Jethro, “all I want.”

He turned, and went down the slope.  Twice the words rose to the minister’s lips to call him back, and were suppressed.  Yet what to say to him if he came?  Mr. Ware sat down again, sadly wondering why Jethro Bass should be so difficult to talk to.

The parsonage was of only one story, with a steep, sloping roof.  On the left of the doorway was Cynthia’s room, and the minister imagined he heard a faint, rustling noise at her window.  Presently he arose, barred the door; could be heard moving around in his room for a while, and after that all was silence save for the mournful crying of a whippoorwill in the woods.  Then a door opened softly, a white vision stole into the little entry lighted by the fan-window, above, seized the book and stole back.  Had the minister been a prying man about his household, he would have noticed next day that Cynthia’s candle was burned down to the socket.  He saw nothing of the kind:  he saw, in fact, that his daughter flitted about the house singing, and he went out into the sun to drop potatoes.

No sooner had he reached the barn than this singing ceased.  But how was
Mr. Ware to know that?