It was now Miss Lucretia who was silent.
“I came near getting married once,” she said presently, with characteristic abruptness.
“You!” cried Cynthia, looking around in amazement.
“You see, I am franker than you, my dear—though I never told any one else. I believe you can keep a secret.”
“Of course I can. Who—was it anyone in Brampton, Miss Lucretia?” The question was out before Cynthia realized its import. She was turning the tables with a vengeance.
“It was Ezra Graves,” said Miss Lucretia.
“Ezra Graves!” And then Cynthia pressed Miss Lucretia's hand in silence, thinking how strange it was that both of them should have been her champions that evening.
Miss Lucretia poked the fire again.
“It was shortly after that, when I went to Boston, that I wrote the 'Hymn to Coniston.' I suppose we must all be fools once or twice, or we should not be human.”
“And—weren't you ever—sorry?” asked Cynthia.