foot on the step
of his buggy, that he might have the complete news before he left.

"Godfrey, Will," exclaimed Rigs, breathlessly, "you hain't a-goin' to
throw up a chance to stay a hull week at the Pelican, be you?" The mere
possibility of refusal overpowered Rias.

Those who are familiar with that delightful French song which treats of
the leave-taking of one Monsieur Dumollet will appreciate, perhaps, the
attentions which were showered upon William Wetherell and Cynthia upon
their departure for the capital next morning. Although Mr. Wetherell had
at one time been actually a resident of Boston, he received quite as many
cautions from his neighbors as Monsieur Dumollet. Billets doux and
pistols were, of course, not mentioned, but it certainly behooved him,
when he should have arrived at that place of intrigues, to be on the
lookout for cabals.

They took the stage-coach from Brampton over the pass: picturesque
stage-coach with its apple-green body and leather springs, soon to be
laid away forever if the coveted Truro Franchise Bill becomes a law;
stage-coach which pulls up defiantly beside its own rival at Truro
station, where our passengers take the train down the pleasant waterways
and past the little white villages among the fruit trees to the capital.
The thrill of anticipation was in Cynthia's blood, and the flush of
pleasure on her cheeks, when they stopped at last under the sheds. The
conductor snapped his fingers and cried, "This way, Judge," and there was
Jethro in his swallow-tailed coat and stove-pipe hat awaiting them. He
seized Wetherell's carpet-bag with one hand and Cynthia's arm with the
other, and shouldered his way through the people, who parted when they
saw who it was.

"Uncle Jethro," cried Cynthia, breathlessly, "I didn't know you were a
judge. What are you judge of?"

"J-judge of clothes, Cynthy. D-don't you wish you had the red cloth to
wear here?"

"No, I don't," said Cynthia. "I'm glad enough to be here without it."

"G-glad to hev you in any fixin's, Cynthy," he said, giving her arm a
little squeeze, and by that time they were up the hill and William
Wetherell quite winded. For Jethro was strong as an ox, and Cynthia's
muscles were like an Indian's.

They were among the glories of Main Street now. The capital was then, and
still remains, a typically beautiful New England city, with wide streets
shaded by shapely maples and elms, with substantial homes set back amidst
lawns and gar