Great men have their weaknesses. And many, close-mouthed with their own sex, will tell their cherished hopes to a woman, if their interests are engaged. With a bas-relief of Isaac Worthington in the town library to-day (his own library), and a full-length portrait of him in the capitol of the state, who shall deny this title to greatness?
He leaned a little toward her, his face illumined by his subject, which was himself.
“I will confide in you,” he said, “that some day I shall build here in Brampton a woollen mill which will be the best of its kind. If I gain money, it will not be to hoard it or to waste it. I shall try to make the town better for it, and the state, and I shall try to elevate my neighbors.”
Cynthia could not deny that these were laudable ambitions.
“Something tells me,” he continued, “that I shall succeed. And that is why I walk on Coniston Water—to choose the best site for a dam.”
“I am honored by your secret, but I feel that the responsibility you repose in me is too great,” she said.
“I can think of none in whom I would rather confide,” said he.
“And am I the only one in all Brampton, Harwich, and Coniston who knows this?” she asked.
Mr. Worthington laughed.
“The only one of importance,” he answered. “This week, when I went to Coniston, I had a strange experience. I left the brook at a tannery, and a most singular fellow was in the shed shovelling bark. I tried to get him to talk, and told him about some new tanning machinery I had seen. Suddenly he turned on me and asked me if I was 'callatin' to set up a mill.' He gave me a queer feeling. Do you have many such odd characters in Coniston, Miss Cynthia? You're not going?”