ere long now.

"Will you take me to Brampton, Uncle Jethro?" said she, letting fall the
paper on her lap.

"W-who's to get in the hay?" said Jethro.

"Hay on the Fourth of July!" exclaimed Cynthia, "why, that's--sacrilege!
You'd much better come and hear Mr. Sutton's speech--it will do you
good."

Cynthia could see that Jethro was intensely amused, for his eyes had a
way of snapping on such occasions when he was alone with her. She was
puzzled and slightly offended, because, to tell the truth, Jethro had
spoiled her.

"Very well, then," she said, "I'll go with the Painter-man."

Jethro came and stood over her, his expression the least bit wistful.

"Er--Cynthy," he said presently, "hain't fond of that Painter-man, be
you?"

"Why, yes," said Cynthia, "aren't you?"

"He's fond of you," said Jethro, "sh-shouldn't be surprised if he was in
love with you."

Cynthia looked up at him, the corners of her mouth twitching, and then
she laughed. The Rev. Mr. Satterlee, writing his Sunday sermon in his
study, heard her and laid down his pen to listen.

"Uncle Jethro," said Cynthia, "sometimes I forget that you're a great,
wise man, and I think that you are just a silly old goose."

Jethro wiped his face with his blue cotton handkerchief.

"Then you hain't a-goin' to marry the Painter-man?" he said.

"I'm not going to marry anybody," cried Cynthia, contritely; "I'm going
to live with you and take care of you all my life."

On the morning of the Fourth, Cynthia drove to Brampton with the
Painter-man, and when he perceived that she was dreaming, he ceased to
worry her with his talk. He liked her dreaming, and stole many glances at
her face of which she knew nothing at all. Through the cool and fragrant
woods, past the mill-pond stained blue and white by the sky, and scented
clover fields and wayside flowers nodding in the morning air--Cynthia saw
these things in the memory of another journey to Brampton. On that Fourth
her father had been with her, and Jethro and Ephraim and Moses and Amanda
Hatch and the children. And how well she recalled, too, standing amidst
the curious crowd before the great house which Mr. Worthington had just
built.

There are weeks and months, perhaps, when we do not think of people, when
our lives are full and vigorous, and then perchance a memory will bring
them vividly before us--so vividly that we yearn for them. There rose
before Cynthia now the vision of a boy as he stood on the Gothi