Ef that one'll jest make me happy, I'll fold my weary pinions and settle down in a rustic log-cabin and raise corn and potaters till death do us part." Cynthy trembled.

Cynthy was a saint, a martyr to religious feeling, a medieval nun in her ascetic eschewing of the pleasures of life.

But Cynthy Ann was also a woman.

And a woman whose spring-time had paused.
When love buds out thus late, when the opportunity for the woman's nature to blossom comes unexpectedly upon one at her age, the temptation is not easily resisted.

Cynthy trembled, but did not quite yield up her Christian constancy.
"Jonas, I don't know whether I'd orto or not.