al of New England, it is a
city of homes, and the dwellers of it have held stanchly to the belief of
their forefathers that the home is the very foundation-rock of the
nation. Held stanchly to other beliefs, too: that wealth carries with it
some little measure of responsibility. The stranger within the gates of
that city feels that if he falls, a heedless world will not go charging
over his body: that a helping hand will be stretched out,--a helping and
a wise hand that will inquire into the circumstances of his fall--but
still a human hand.

They were sitting in the parlor of the Tremont House that morning with
the sun streaming in the windows, waiting for Ephraim.

"Uncle Jethro," Cynthia asked, abruptly, "did you ever know my mother?"

Jethro started, and looked at her quickly.

"W-why, Cynthy?" he asked.

"Because she grew up in Coniston," answered Cynthia. "I never thought of
it before, but of course you must have known her."

"Yes, I knew her," he said.

"Did you know her well?" she persisted.

Jethro got up and went over to the window, where he stood with his back
toward her.

"Yes, Cynthy," he answered at length.

"Why haven't you ever told me about her?" asked Cynthia. How was she to
know that her innocent questions tortured him cruelly; that the spirit of
the Cynthia who had come to him in the tannery house had haunted him all
his life, and that she herself, a new Cynthia, was still that spirit? The
bygone Cynthia had been much in his thoughts since they came to Boston.

"What was she like?"

"She--she was like you, Cynthy," he said, but he did not turn round. "She
was a clever woman, and a good woman, and--a lady, Cynthy."

The girl said nothing for a while, but she tingled with pleasure because
Jethro had compared her to her mother. She determined to try to be like
that, if he thought her so.

"Uncle Jethro," she said presently, "I'd like to go to see the house
where she lived."

"Er--Ephraim knows it," said Jethro.

So when Ephraim came the three went over the hill; past the State House
which Bulfinch set as a crown on the crest of it looking over the sweep
of the Common, and on into the maze of quaint, old-world streets on the
slope beyond: streets with white porticos, and violet panes in the
windows. They came to an old square hidden away on a terrace of the hill,
and after that the streets grew narrower and dingier. Ephraim, whose
memory never betrayed him, hobbled up to a shabby hous