When he had finished speaking, she stole silently to his side and slipped her hand in his. He trembled violently at her touch. “Uncle Jethro,” she said in a low tone, “I love you.” At the words he trembled more violently still. “No, no, Cynthy,” he answered thickly, “don't say that--I--I don't expect it, Cynthy, I know you can't--'twouldn't be right, Cynthy. I hain't fit for it.” “Uncle Jethro,” she said, “I love you better than I have ever loved you in my life.” Oh, how welcome were the tears! and how human! He turned, pitifully incredulous, wondering that she should seek by deceit to soften the blow; he saw them running down her cheeks, and he believed. Yes, he believed, though it seemed a thing beyond belief. Unworthy, unfit though he were, she loved him. And his own love as he gazed at her, sevenfold increased as it had been by the knowledge of losing her, changed in texture from homage to worship--nay, to adoration. His punishment would still be heavy; but whence had come such a wondrous gift to mitigate it? “Oh, don't you believe me?” she cried, “can't you see that it is true?” And yet he could only hold her there at arm's length with that new and strange reverence in his face. He was not worthy to touch her, but still she loved him. The flush had faded from the eastern sky, and the faintest border of yellow light betrayed the ragged outlines of the mountain as they walked together to the tannery house. Millicent, in the kitchen, was making great preparations--for Millicent. Miss Skinner was a person who had hitherto laid it down as a principle of life to pay deference or do honor to no human made of mere dust, like herself. Millicent's exception; if Cynthia had thought about it, was a tribute of no mean order. Cynthia, alas, did not think about it: she did not know that, in her absence, the fire had not been lighted in the evening, Jethro supping on crackers and milk and Milly partaking of the evening meal at home. Moreover, Miss Skinner had an engagement with a young man. Cynthia saw the fire, and threw off her sealskin coat which Mr. and Mrs. Merrill had given her for Christmas, and took down the saucepan from the familiar nail on which it hung. It was a miraculous fact, for which she did not attempt to account, that she was almost happy: happy, indeed, in comparison to that which had been her state since the afternoon before. Millicent snatched the saucepan angrily from her hand. “What be you doin', Cynthy?” she demanded. Such was Miss Skinner's little way of showing deference. Though deference is not usually vehement, Miss Skinner's was very real, nevertheless. “Why, Milly, what's the matter?” exclaimed Cynthia, in astonishment. “You hain't a-goin' to do any cookin', that's all,” said Milly, very red in the face. “But I've always helped,” said Cynthia. “Why not?” Why not? A tribute was one thing, but to have to put the reasons for that tribute, into words was quite another.