o, Cynthy," he answered. He held a bundle covered with
newspaper in his hand, he looked down at Cynthia.

He seated himself on the edge of the porch and for the moment seemed lost
in revery. Then he began slowly to unwrap the newspaper from the bundle:
there were five layers of it, but at length he disclosed a bolt of
cardinal cloth.

"Call this to mind, Cynthy?"

"Yes," she answered with a smile.

"H-how's this for the dress, Mr. Painter-man?" said Jethro, with a pride
that was ill-concealed.

The painter started up from his seat and took the material in his hands
and looked at Cynthia. He belonged to a city club where he was popular
for his knack of devising costumes, and a vision of Cynthia as the
daughter of a Doge of Venice arose before his eyes. Wonder of wonders,
the daughter of a Doge discovered in a New England hill village! The
painter seized his pad and pencil and with a few strokes, guided by
inspiration, sketched the costume then and there and held it up to
Jethro, who blinked at it in astonishment. But Jethro was suspicious of
his own sensations.

"Er--well--Godfrey--g-guess that'll do." Then came the involuntary:
"W-wouldn't a-thought you had it in you. How about it, Cynthy?" and he
held it up for her inspection.

"If you are pleased, it's all I care about, Uncle Jethro," she answered,
and then, her face suddenly flushing, "You must promise me on your honor
that nobody in Coniston shall know about it, 'Mr. Painter-man'."

After this she always called him "Mr. Painter-man,"--when she was pleased
with him.

So the cardinal cloth was come to its usefulness at last. It was
inevitable that Sukey Kittredge, the village seamstress, should be taken
into confidence. It was no small thing to take Sukey into confidence, for
she was the legitimate successor in more ways than one of Speedy Bates,
and much of Cynthia and the artist's ingenuity was spent upon devising a
form of oath which would hold Sukey silent. Sukey, however, got no small
consolation from the sense of the greatness of the trust confided in her,
and of the uproar she could make in Coniston if she chose. The painter,
to do him justice, was the real dressmaker, and did everything except cut
the cloth and sew it together. He sent to friends of his in the city for
certain paste jewels and ornaments, and one day Cynthia stood in the old
tannery shed--hastily transformed into a studio--before a variously moved
audience. Sukey, having adjusted the