his
stern face would soften as he talked to her.

One Sunday when Cynthia was eight years old he missed them, and the
next, and at dusk he strode into their little lodging behind the hill
and up to the bedside. He glanced at Wetherell, patting Cynthia on the
head the while, and bade her cheerily to go out of the room. But
she held tight hold of her father's hand and looked up at the doctor
bravely.

"I am taking care of my father," she said.

"So you shall, little woman," he answered. "I would that we had such
nurses as you at the hospital. Why didn't you send for me at once?"

"I wanted to," said Cynthia.

"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.

"Then he will go," said Cynthia, so quietly that he gave her another
look, strange and tender and comprehending. He, sat and talked of many
things: of the great war that was agonizing the nation; of the strong
man who, harassed and suffering himself, was striving to guide it,
likening Lincoln unto a physician. So the doctor was wont to take the
minds of patients from themselves. And before he left he gave poor
Wetherell a fortnight to decide.

As he lay on his back in that room among the chimney tops trying vainly
to solve the problem of how he was to earn his salt in the country, a
visitor was climbing the last steep flight of stairs. That visitor
was none other than Sergeant Ephraim Prescott, son of Isaiah of the
pitch-pipe, and own cousin of Cynthia Ware's. Sergeant Ephraim was just
home from the war and still clad in blue, and he walked with a slight
limp by reason of a bullet he had got in the Wilderness, and he had such
an honest, genial face that little Cynthia was on his knee in a moment.

"How be you, Will? Kind of poorly, I callate. So Cynthy's b'en took," he
said sadly. "Always thought a sight of Cynthy. Little Cynthy favors her
some. Yes, thought I'd drop in and see how you be on my way home."

Sergeant Ephraim had much to say about the great war, and about
Coniston. True to the instincts of the blood of the Stark hero, he had
left the plough and the furrow' at the first call, forty years of age
though he was. But it had been other