promised, provided they did not leave for Coniston earlier, and
in that event agreed to write. Whereupon Miss Lucretia kissed her again
and hurried off to her meeting. On the way back to the Tremont House
Cynthia related excitedly the whole circumstance to Jethro and Ephraim.
Ephraim had heard of Miss Lucretia, of course. Who had not? But he did
not read the Woman's Hour. Jethro was silent. Perhaps he was thinking
of that fresh summer morning, so long ago, when a girl in a gig had
overtaken him in the canon made by the Brampton road through the woods.
The girl had worn a poke bonnet, and was returning a book to this same
Miss Lucretia Penniman's Social Library. And the book was the "Life of
Napoleon Bonaparte."

"Uncle Jethro, shall we still be in Boston to-morrow morning?" Cynthia
asked.

He roused himself. "Yes," he said, "yes." "When are you going home?"

He did not answer this simple question, but countered. "Hain't you
enjoyin' yourself, Cynthy?"

"Of course I am," she declared. But she thought it strange that he would
not tell her when they would be in Coniston.

Ephraim did buy a new shirt, and also (in view of the postmastership in
his packet) a new necktie, his old one being slightly frayed.

The grandeur of the approaching supper party and the fear of Mrs.
Merrill hung very heavy over him; nor was Jethro's mind completely at
rest. Ephraim even went so far as to discuss the question as to whether
Mr. Merrill had not surpassed his authority in inviting him, and full
expected to be met at the door by that gentleman uttering profuse
apologies, which Ephraim was quite prepared and willing to take in good
faith.

Nothing of the kind happened, however. Mr. Merrill's railroad being a
modest one, his house was modest likewise. But Ephraim thought it grand
enough, and yet acknowledged a homelike quality in its grandeur. He
began by sitting on the edge of the sofa and staring at the cut-glass
chandelier, but in five minutes he discovered with a shock of surprise
that he was actually leaning back, describing in detail how his regiment
had been cheered as they marched through Boston. And incredible as it
may seem, the person whom he was entertaining in this manner was Mrs.
Stephen Merrill herself. Mrs. Merrill was as tall as Mr. Merrill was
short. She wore a black satin dress with a big cameo brooch pinned at
her throat, her hair was gray, and her face almost masculine until it
lighted up with a wonderfully sweet