own it. He had felt that pain before.

"H-how do they treat you, Cynthy?"

She hesitated. She had not yet learned to use the word patronize in the
social sense, and she was at a loss to describe the attitude of Mrs.
Duncan and her daughter, though her instinct had registered it. She was
at a loss to account for Mr. Worthington's attitude, too. Mr. Sutton's
she bitterly resented.

"Are they your enemies?" she demanded.

Jethro was in real distress.

"If they are," she continued, "I won't speak to them again. If they
can't treat me as--as your daughter ought to be treated, I'll turn
my back on them. I am--I am just like your daughter--am I not, Uncle
Jethro?"

He put out his hand and seized hers roughly, and his voice was thick
with suffering.

"Yes, Cynthy," he said, "you--you're all I've got in the world."

She squeezed his hand in return.

"I know it, Uncle Jethro," she cried contritely, "I oughtn't to have
troubled you by asking. You--you have done everything for me, much more
than I deserve. And I shan't be hurt after this when people are too
small to appreciate how good you are, and how great."

The pain tightened about Jethro's heart--tightened so sharply that he
could not speak, and scarcely breathe because of it. Cynthia picked up
her novel, and set the bookmark.

"Now that Cousin Eph is provided for, let's go back to Coniston, Uncle
Jethro." A sudden longing was upon her for the peaceful life in the
shelter of the great ridge, and she thought of the village maples all
red and gold with the magic touch of the frosts. "Not that I haven't
enjoyed my trip," she added; "but we are so happy there."

He did not look at her, because he was afraid to.

"C-Cynthy," he said, after a little pause, "th-thought we'd go to
Boston."

"Boston, Uncle Jethro!"

"Er--to-morrow--at one--to-morrow--like to go to Boston?"

"Yes," she said thoughtfully, "I remember parts of it. The Common, where
I used to walk with Daddy, and the funny old streets that went uphill.
It will be nice to go back to Coniston that way--over Truro Pass in the
train."

That night a piece of news flashed over the wires to New England, and
the next morning a small item appeared in the Newcastle Guardian to
the effect that one Ephraim Prescott had bean appointed postmaster
at Brampton. Copied in the local papers of the state, it caused some
surprise in Brampton, to be sure, and excitement in Coniston. Perhaps
there were but a dozen men, how