her eyes. But,
stranger than that, Cynthia saw that there were tears in his own. He took
her gently by the arm and led her down the stairs again, she supporting
him, and Jethro following.

That same morning, Jethro, whose memory was quite as good as Ephraim's,
found a little shop tucked away in Cornhill which had been miraculously
spared in the advance of prosperity. Mr. Judson's name, however, was no
longer in quaint lettering over the door. Standing before it, Jethro told
the story in his droll way, of a city clerk and a country bumpkin, and
Cynthia and Ephraim both laughed so heartily that the people who were
passing turned round to look at them and laughed too. For the three were
an unusual group, even in Boston. It was not until they were seated at
dinner in the hotel, Ephraim with his napkin tucked under his chin, that
Jethro gave them the key to the characters in this story.

"And who was the locket for, Uncle Jethro?" demanded Cynthia.

Jethro, however, shook his head, and would not be induced to tell.

They were still so seated when Cynthia perceived coming toward them
through the crowded dining roam a merry, middle-aged gentleman with a
bald head. He seemed to know everybody in the room, for he was kept busy
nodding right and left at the tables until he came to theirs. He was Mr.
Merrill who had come to see her father in Coniston, and who had spoken so
kindly to her on that occasion.

"Well, well, well," he said; "Jethro, you'll be the death of me yet.
'Don't write-send,' eh? Well, as long as you sent word you were here, I
don't complain. So you licked 'em again, eh--down in Washington? Never
had a doubt but what you would. Is this the new postmaster? How are you,
Mr. Prescott--and Cynthia--a young lady! Bless my soul," said Mr.
Merrill, looking her over as he shook her hand. "What have you done to
her, Jethro? What kind of beauty powder do they use in Coniston?"

Mr. Merrill took the seat next to her and continued to talk, scattering
his pleasantries equally among the three, patting her arm when her own
turn came. She liked Mr. Merrill very much; he seemed to her (as, indeed,
he was) honest and kind-hearted. Cynthia was not lacking in a proper
appreciation of herself--that may have been discovered. But she was
puzzled to know why this gentleman should make it a point to pay such
particular attention to a young country girl. Other railroad presidents
whom she could name had not done so. She was thinking