into the Coniston road. Silas said nothing. Silas, as a matter of fact,
never did say anything. He had been the Worthington coachman for five and
twenty years, and he was known in Brampton as Silas the Silent. Young Mr.
Worthington had no desire to talk that morning.

The black trotters covered the ten miles in much quicker time than Lem
Hallowell could do it in his stage, but the distance seemed endless to
Bob. It was not much more than half an hour after he had left Brampton
Street, however, that he shot past the store, and by the time Rias
Richardson in his carpet slippers reached the platform the cutter was in
front of the tannery house, and the trotters, with their sides smoking,
were pawing up the snow under the butternut tree.

Bob leaped out, hurried up the path, and knocked at the door. It was
opened by Jethro Bass himself!

"How do you do, Mr. Bass," said the young man, gravely, and he held out
his hand. Jethro gave him such a scrutinizing look as he had given many a
man whose business he cared to guess, but Bob looked fearlessly into his
eyes. Jethro took his hand.

"C-come in," he said.

Bob went into that little room where Jethro and Cynthia had spent so many
nights together, and his glance flew straight to the picture on the
wall,--the portrait of Cynthia Wetherell in crimson and seed pearls, so
strangely set amidst such surroundings. His glance went to the portrait,
and his feet followed, as to a lodestone. He stood in front of it for
many minutes, in silence, and Jethro watched him. At last he turned.