As for Cynthia, nothing was farther from her mind.  Unchristian as was the thought, if this thing she had awakened could only have been put back to sleep again, she would have thought herself happy.  But would she have been happy?  When Moses Hatch congratulated her, with more humor than sincerity, he received the greatest scare of his life.  Yet in those days she welcomed Moses’s society as she never had before; and Coniston, including Moses himself, began thinking of a wedding.

Another Saturday came, and no Cynthia went to Brampton.  Jethro may or may not have been on the road.  Sunday, and there was Jethro on the back seat in the meetinghouse:  Sunday noon, over his frugal dinner, the minister mildly remonstrates with Cynthia for neglecting one who has shown signs of grace, citing certain failures of others of his congregation:  Cynthia turns scarlet, leaving the minister puzzled and a little uneasy:  Monday, Miss Lucretia Penniman, alarmed, comes to Coniston to inquire after Cynthia’s health:  Cynthia drives back with her as far as Four Corners, talking literature and the advancement of woman; returns on foot, thinking of something else, when she discerns a figure seated on a log by the roadside, bent as in meditation.  There was no going back the thing to do was to come on, as unconcernedly as possible, not noticing anything,—­which Cynthia did, not without a little inward palpitating and curiosity, for which she hated herself and looked the sterner.  The figure unfolded itself, like a Jack from a box.

“You say the woman wahn’t any to blame—­wahn’t any to blame?”

The poke bonnet turned away.  The shoulders under it began to shake, and presently the astonished Jethro heard what seemed to be faint peals of laughter.  Suddenly she turned around to him, all trace of laughter gone.

“Why don’t you read the book?”

“So I am,” said Jethro, “so I am.  Hain’t come to this casting-off yet.”

“And you didn’t look ahead to find out?” This with scorn.

“Never heard of readin’ a book in that fashion.  I’ll come to it in time—­g-guess it won’t run away.”

Cynthia stared at him, perhaps with a new interest at this plodding determination.  She was not quite sure that she ought to stand talking to him a third time in these woods, especially if the subject of conversation were not, as Coniston thought, the salvation of his soul.  But she stayed.  Here was a woman who could be dealt with by no known rules, who did not even deign to notice a week of marked coldness.

“Jethro,” she said, with a terrifying sternness, “I am going to ask you a question, and you must answer me truthfully.”

“G-guess I won’t find any trouble about that,” said Jethro, apparently not in the least terrified.

“I want you to tell me why you are going to meeting.”

“To see you,” said Jethro, promptly, “to see you.”

“Don’t you know that that is wrong?”