She sat down beside him and felt his forehead and his hands, and the events of the evening which were on her lips to tell him remained unspoken.

“You ought not to have left Coniston,” she said; “the excitement is too much for you.  We will go back tomorrow.”

“Yes, Cynthia, we will go back to-morrow.”

“In the morning?”

“On the early train,” said Wetherell, “and now you must go to sleep.”

“I am glad,” said Cynthia, as she kissed him good night.  “I have enjoyed it here, and I am grateful to Uncle Jethro for bringing us, but—­but I like Coniston best.”

William Wetherell could have slept but a few hours.  When he awoke the sparrows were twittering outside, the fresh cool smells of the morning were coming in at his windows, and the sunlight was just striking across the roofs through the green trees of the Capitol Park.  The remembrance of a certain incident of the night before crept into his mind, and he got up, and drew on his clothes and thrust his few belongings into the carpet-bag, and knocked on Cynthia’s door.  She was already dressed, and her eyes rested searchingly on his face.

“Dad, you aren’t well.  I know it,” she said.

But he denied that he was not.

Her belongings were in a neat little bundle under her arm.  But when she went to put them in the bag she gave an exclamation, knelt down, took everything out that he had packed, and folded each article over again with amazing quickness.  Then she made a rapid survey of the room lest she had forgotten anything, closed the bag, and they went out and along the corridor.  But when Wetherell turned to go down the stairs, she stopped him.

“Aren’t you going to say goodby to Uncle Jethro?”

“I—­I would rather go on and get in the train, Cynthia,” he said.  “Jethro will understand.”

Cynthia was worried, but she did not care to leave him; and she led him, protesting, into the dining room.  He had a sinking fear that they might meet Jethro there, but only a few big-boned countrymen were scattered about, attended by sleepy waitresses.  Lest Cynthia might suspect how his head was throbbing, Wetherell tried bravely to eat his breakfast.  He did not know that she had gone out, while they were waiting, and written a note to Jethro, explaining that her father was ill, and that they were going back to Coniston.  After breakfast, when they went to the desk, the clerk stared at them in astonishment.

“Going, Mr. Wetherell?” he exclaimed.

“I find that I have to get back,” stammered the storekeeper.  “Will you tell me the amount of my bill?”

“Judge Bass gave me instructions that he would settle that.”

“It is very kind of Mr. Bass,” said Wetherell, “but I prefer to pay it myself.”

The man hesitated.

“The judge will be very angry, Mr. Wetherell.”

“Kindly give me the bill.”