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Updated: May 19, 2025
There was a long silence, and, forgetful for the moment of his own predicament, Wetherell found a fearful fascination in watching the contortions of the victim whose punishment was to precede his.
Having delivered this little lecture, the lady continued to stare at her with keen eyes. "You look very much like someone I used to love when I was younger. What is your name." "Cynthia Wetherell." "Cynthia Wetherell? Was your mother Cynthia Ware, from Coniston?" "Yes," said Cynthia, amazed. In an instant the strange lady had risen and had taken Cynthia in her embrace, new dress and all.
Wetherell's hand impressively. His own was very moist. "Heard you was in town, Mr. Wetherell," he said heartily. "If Jethro calls you a particular friend, it means something, I guess. It means something to me, anyhow." "Will hain't a politician," said Jethro. "Er Alvy?" "Hello!" said Mr. Hopkins. "Er Will don't talk."
Dinner was ready, as I expected. I told Mrs. Wetherell of my walk over the Stony Bridge. "Yes," she said. "Years ago, when I kept geese, one night I went out to feed them and I found that they hadn't come. I knew something must be the matter. I started for the brook. When I got out on the hill by the graveyard, I heard the gander making an awful noise.
Jethro had parted his coat tails and seated himself enjoyably on the bed. "D-don't come often," he said, "m-might as well have the best." "Jethro," said Wetherell, coughing nervously and fumbling in the pocket of his coat, "you've been very kind to us, and we hardly know how to thank you. I I didn't have any use for these." He held out the pieces of cardboard which had come in Cynthia's letter.
If his life had depended on it, William Wetherell could not have spoken a word to Mr. Bixby then. "You done well, Will, sure enough," that gentleman continued to whisper. "And Alvy's gal done well, too you understand. I guess she's the only one that ever snarled up Al Lovejoy so that he didn't know where he was at. But it took a fine, delicate touch for her job and yours, Will.
"Bless her good sense;" said the doctor; "she has more than you, Wetherell. Why didn't you take her advice? If your father does not do as I tell him, he will be a very sick man indeed. He must go into the country and stay there." "But I must live, Doctor," said William Wetherell. The doctor looked at Cynthia. "You will not live if you stay here," he replied.
The locket fell open in William Wetherell's hand, for the clasp had become worn with time, and there was a picture of little Cynthia within: of little Cynthia, not so little now, a photograph taken in Brampton the year before. Wetherell laid it beside the daguerreotype. "She looks like her," he said aloud; "but the child is more vigorous, more human less like a spirit.
And into this vividness came the girl who had waited on the table, and her flaming cheeks and copper hair seemed to challenge the glow of the autumn landscape. She would have passed him with a nod, but he stopped her. "You must not run away, Mazie Wetherell," he said; "you used to treat me better than that when you were a little girl." She laughed. "Do you remember my freckles and red hair?"
Miss Millicent Skinner, too, was in a like mysterious way compelled to abdicate her high place in favor of Cynthia, and Wetherell was utterly unable to explain how this miracle was accomplished. Not only did Millicent learn to cook, but Cynthia, at the age of fourteen, had taught her.
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